THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


V 


3ITY  OF  -CALIFORNIA 
LIBRA 

ANGELRS.  CAUFJ 


A  WHITE   HERON 


AND   OTHER   STORIES 


BY_ 

ORNE  JEWETT' 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

(£be  tfiiicrsiDe  press  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    1886,    BY    SARAM    ORNE   JEWETT 
COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY   MARY    R.  JEWETT 

ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


To 
MY  DEAR  SISTER  MARY, 


One  of  these  stories,  "  Fanner  Finch."  is  reprinted 
from  "  Harper's  Magazine  ;  "  two  are  new.  and  the 
rest  were  published  in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  and 
other  periodicals. 


CONTENTS. 


•  A  WHITE  HERON       .      .  ......      1 

^y. 

,»THE  GRAY  MAN      .        ......        23 

FARMER  FINCH  .        .        ......    36 

t  J  MARSH  ROSEMARY  .......        86 

THE  DULHAM  LADIES         ......  124 

A  BUSINESS  MAN    .......      151 

MARTHA  .......  180 

NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM        ....      198 

Two  BROWNS     .......  211 

V 


A- 


A  WHITE  HEKON. 


THE  woods  were  already  filled  with  shadows 
one  June  evening,  just  before  eight  o'clock, 
though  a  bright  sunset  still  glimmered  faintly 
among  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  A  little  girl 
was  driving  home  her  cow,  a  plodding,  dila- 
tory, provoking  creature  in  her  behavior,  but 
a  valued  companion  for  all  that.  They  were 
going  away  from  whatever  light  there  was,  and 
striking  deep  into  the  woods,  but  their  feet 
were  familiar  with  the  path,  and  it  was  no 
matter  whether  their  eyes  could  see  it  or  not. 

There  was  hardly  a  night  the  summer 
through  when  the  old  cow  could  be  found 
waiting  at  the  pasture  bars ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
was  her  greatest  pleasure  to  hide  herself  away 
among  the  huckleberry  bushes,  and  though 
she  wore  a  loud  bell  she  had  made  the  discov- 
ery that  if  one  stood  perfectly  still  it  would 
not  ring.  So  Sylvia  had  to  hunt  for  her  until 


2  A    WHITE  HERON. 

she  found  her,  and  call  Co' !  Co' !  with  never 
an  answering  Moo,  until  her  childish  patience 
was  quite  spent.  If  the  creature  had  not  given 
good  milk  and  plenty  of  it,  the  case  would 
have  seemed  very  different  to  her  owners. 
Besides,  Sylvia  had  all  the  time  there  was, 
and  very  little  use  to  make  of  it.  Sometimes 
in  pleasant  weather  it  was  a  consolation  to 
look  upon  the  cow's  pranks  as  an  intelligent 
attempt  to  play  hide  and  seek,  and  as  the  child 
had  no  playmates  she  lent  herself  to  this 
amusement  with  a  good  deal  of  zest.  Though 
this  chase  had  been  so  long  that  the  wary  ani- 
mal herself  had  given  an  unusual  signal  of  her 
whereabouts,  Sylvia  had  only  laughed  when 
she  came  upon  Mistress  Moolly  at  the  swamp- 
side,  and  urged  her  affectionately  homeward 
with  a  twig  of  birch  leaves.  The  old  cow  was 
not  inclined  to  wander  farther,  she  even  turned 
in  the  right  direction  for  once  as  they  left  the 
pasture,  and  stepped  along  the  road  at  a  good 
pace.  She  was  quite  ready  to  be  milked  now, 
and  seldom  stopped  to  browse.  Sylvia  won- 
dered what  her  grandmother  would  say  because 
they  were  so  late.  It  was  a  great  while  since 
she  had  left  home  at  half -past  live  o  clock,  but 


A  WHITE  HERON.  3 

everybody  knew  the  difficulty  of  making  this 
errand  a  short  one.  Mrs.  Tilley  had  chased 
the  horned  torment  too  many  summer  even- 
ings herself  to  blame  any  one  else  for  linger- 
ing, and  was  only  thankful  as  she  waited  that 
she  had  Sylvia,  nowadays,  to  give  such  valua- 
ble assistance.  The  good  woman  suspected 
that  Sylvia  loitered  occasionally  on  her  own 
account ;  there  never  was  such  a  child  for 
straying  about  out-of-doors  since  the  world 
was  made !  Everybody  said  that  it  was  a 
good  change  for  a  little  maid  who  had  tried  to 
grow  for  eight  years  in  a  crowded  manufactur- 
ing town,  but,  as  for  Sylvia  herself,  it  seemed 
as  if  she  never  had  been  alive  at  all  before  she 
came  to  live  at  the  farm.  She  thought  often 
with  wistful  compassion,  of  a  wretched  gera- 
nium that  belonged  to  a  town  neighbor, 

"  '  Afraid  of  folks/  "  old  Mrs.  Tilley  said  to 
herself,  with  a  smile,  after  she  had  made  the 
unlikely  choice  of  Sylvia  from  her  daughter's 
houseful  of  children,  and  was  returning  to  the 
farm.  " '  Afraid  of  folks,'  they  said !  I  guess 
she  won't  be  troubled  no  great  with  'em  up  to 
the  old  place  !  "  When  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  lonely  house  and  stopped  to  unlock  it, 


4  A    WHITE  HERON. 

and  the  cat  came  to  purr  loudly,  and  rub 
against  them,  a  deserted  pussy,  indeed,  but 
fat  with  young  robins,  Sylvia  whispered  that 
this  was  a  beautiful  place  to  live  in,  and  she 
never  should  wish  to  go  home. 

The  companions  followed  the  shady  wood- 
road,  the  cow  taking  slow  steps  and  the  child 
very  fast  ones.  The  cow  stopped  long  at  the 
brook  to  drink,  as  if  the  pasture  were  not  half 
a  swamp,  and  Sylvia  stood  still  and  waited, 
letting  her  bare  feet  cool  themselves  in  the 
shoal  water,  while  the  great  twilight  moths 
struck  softly  against  her.  She  waded  on 
through  the  brook  as  the  cow  moved  away,  and 
listened  to  the  thrushes  with  a  heart  that  beat 
fast  with  pleasure.  There  was  a  stirring  in 
the  great  boughs  overhead.  They  were  full  of 
little  birds  and  beasts  that  seemed  to  be  wide 
awake,  and  going  about  their  world,  or  else 
saying  good-night  to  each  other  in  sleepy  twit- 
ters. Sylvia  herself  felt  sleepy  as  she  walked 
along.  However,  it  was  not  much  farther  to  the 
house,  and  the  air  was  soft  and  sweet.  She  was 
not  often  in  the  woods  so  late  as  this,  and  it 
maje  her  f  eel_asif  she  were  a  part  of  the  gray 


A    WHITE  HEROfr.  5 

shadows  and  the  moving  leaves.  She  was  just 
thinking  how  long  it  seemed  since  she  first 
came  to  the  farm  a  year  ago,  and  wondering  if 
everything  went  on  in  the  noisy  town  just  the 
same  as  when  she  was  there ;  the  thought  of 
the  great  red-faced  boy  who  used  to  chase  and 
frighten  her  made  her  hurry  along  the  path 
to  escape  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

Suddenly  this  little  woods-girl  is  horror- 
stricken  to  hear  a  clear  whistle  not  very  far 
away.  Not  a  bird's-whistle,  which  would  have 
a  sort  of  friendliness,  but  a  boy's  whistle,  de- 
termined, and  somewhat  aggressive.  Sylvia 
left  the  cow  to  whatever  sad  fate  might  await 
her,  and  stepped  discreetly  aside  into  the 
bushes,  but  she  was  just  too  late.  The  enemy 
had  discovered  her,  and  called  out  in  a  very 
cheerful  and  persuasive  tone,  "  Halloa,  little 
girl,  how  far  is  it  to  the  road  ?  "  and  trem- 
bling Sylvia  answered  almost  inaudibly,  "A 
good  ways." 

She  did  not  dare  to  look  boldly  at  the  tall 
young  man,  who  carried  a  gun  over  his  shoul- 
der, but  she  came  out  of  her  bush  and  again 
followed  the  cow,  while  he  walked  alongside. 

"  I  have  been  hunting  for  some  birds,"  the 


6  A    WHITE  HERON. 

stranger  said  kindly,  "and  I  have  lost  my 
way,  and  need  a  friend  very  much.  Don't  be 
afraid,"  he  added  gallantly.  "  Speak  up  and 
tell  me  what  your  name  is,  and  whether  you 
think  I  can  spend  the  night  at  your  house,  and 
go  out  gunning  early  in  the  morning." 

Sylvia  was  more  alarmed  than  before. 
Would  not  her  grandmother  consider  her  much 
to  blame  ?  But  who  could  have  foreseen  such 
an  accident  as  ffcis  ?  It  did  not  seem  to  be  her 
fault,  and  she  hung  her  head  as  if  the  stem 
of  it  were  broken,  but  managed  to  answer 
"  Sylvy,"  with  much  effort  when  her  compan- 
ion again  asked  her  name. 

Mrs.  Tilley  was  standing  in  the  doorway 
when  the  trio  came  into  view.  The  cow  gave 
a  loud  moo  by  way  of  explanation. 

"  Yes,  you  'd  better  speak  up  for  yourself, 
you  old  trial!  Where 'd  she  tucked  herself 
away  this  time,  Sylvy?"  But  Sylvia  kept 
an  awed  silence ;  she  knew  by  instinct  that 
her  grandmother  did  not  comprehend  the  grav- 
ity of  the  situation.  She  must  be  mistaking 
the  stranger  for  one  of  the  farmer-lads  of  the 
region. 

The  young  man  stood  his  gun  beside  the 


A    WHITE  HERON.  1 

door,  and  dropped  a  lumpy  game-bag  beside 
it;  then  he  bade  Mrs.  Tilley  good -evening, 
and  repeated  his  wayfarer's  story,  and  asked 
if  he  could  have  a  night's  lodging. 

"  Put  me  anywhere  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  be  off  early  in  the  morning,  before  day  ; 
but  I  am  very  hungry,  indeed.  You  can  give 
me  some  milk  at  any  rate,  that 's  plain." 

"  Dear  sakes,  yes,"  responded  the  hostess, 
whose  long  slumbering  hospitality  seemed  to 
be  easily  awakened.  "  You  might  fare  better 
if  you  went  out  to  the  main  road  a  mile  or  so, 
but  you  're  welcome  to  what  we  Ve  got.  I  '11 
milk  right  off,  and  you  make  yourself  at  home. 
You  can  sleep  on  husks  or  feathers,"  she  prof- 
fered graciously.  "  I  raised  them  all  myself. 
There  's  good  pasturing  for  geese  just  below 
here  towards  the  ma'sh.  Now  step  round  and 
set  a  plate  for  the  gentleman,  Sylvy  !  "  And 
Sylvia  promptly  stepped.  She  was  glad  to  have 
something  to  do,  and  she  was  hungry  herself. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  find  so  clean  and  com-, 
fortable  a  little  dwelling  in  this  New  England 
wilderness.  The  young  man  had  known  the 
horrors  of  its  most  primitive  housekeeping,  and 
the  dreary  squalor  of  that  level  of  society 


8  A   WHITE  HERON. 

which  does  not  rebel  at  the  companionship  of 
hens.  This  was  the  best  thrift  of  an  old-fash- 
ioned farmstead,  though  on  such  a  small  scale 
that  it  seemed  like  a  hermitage.  He  listened 
eagerly  to  the  old  woman's  quaint  talk,  he 
watched  Sylvia's  pale  face  and  shining  gray 
eyes  with  ever  growing  enthusiasm,  and  in- 
sisted that  this  was  the  best  supper  he  had 
eaten  for  a  month,  and  afterward  the  new- 
made  friends  sat  down  in  the  door-way  to- 
gether while  the  moon  came  up. 

^  Soon  it  would  be  berry-time,  and  Sylvia  was 

,    I  -*  a  great  help  at  picking.     The  cow  was  a  good 

^          milker,  though  a  plaguy  thing  to  keep  track 
of,  the  hostess  gossiped  frankly,  adding  pres- 
ently that  she  had  buried  four  children,  so 
Sylvia's  mother,  and  a   son  (who   might   be 
dead)  in  California  were  all  the  children  she 
had  left.  !  "  Dan,  my  boy,  was  a  great  hand  to 
^  ">J"     g°  giumhig*"  she  explained  sadly.     "  I  never 
*  -   ,      wanted  for  pa'tridges  or  gray  squer'ls  while 
"3^        he  was  to  home.     H^  's  been  a  great  wand'rer, 
.  ^  i      I  expect,  and  he   's  no  hand  to  write  letters. 
;  -f-^      There,  I  don't  blame  him,  I  'd  ha'  seen  the 
world  myself  if  it  had  been  so  I  could." 

"  Sylvy  takes  after  him,"  the  grandmother 


A    WHITE  HERON.  9 

continued  affectionately,  after  a  minute's  pause. 
"  There  ain't  a  foot  o'  ground  she  don't  know 
her  way  over,  and  the  wild  ereaturs  counts  her 
one  o'  themselves.  Squer'ls  she  '11  tame  to 
come  an'  feed  right  out  o'  her  hands,  and  all 
sorts  o'  birds.  Last  winter  she  got  the  jay- 
birds to  bangeing  here,  and  I  believe  she  'd  'a' 
scanted  herself  of  her  own  meals  to  have 
plenty  to  throw  out  amongst  'em,  if  I  had  n't 
kep'  watch.  Anything  but  crows,  I  tell  her, 
I  'm  willin'  to  help  support  —  though  Dan  he 
had  a  tamed  one  o'  them  that  did  seem  to  have 
reason  same  as  folks.  It  was  round  here  a  good 
spell  after  he  went  awayJ  Dan  an'  his  father 
they  did  n't  hitch,  —  but  he  never  held  up  his 
head  ag'in  after  Dan  had  dared  him  an'  gone 
off." 

The  guest  did  not  notice  this  hint  of  family 
sorrows  in  his  eager  interest  in  something  else. 

"  So  Sylvy  knows  all  about  birds,  does  she  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  round  at  the  little 
girl  who  sat,  very  demure  but  increasingly 
sleepy,  in  the  moonlight.  "  I  am  making  a 
collection  of  birds  myself.  I  have  been  at  it 
ever  since  I  was  a  boy."  (Mrs.  Tilley  smiled.) 
"  There  are  two  or  three  very  rare  ones  I  have 


10  A    WHITE  HERON. 

been  hunting  for  these  five  years.  I  mean  to 
get  them  on  my  own  ground  if  they  can  be 
found." 

"  Do  you  cage  'em  up  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Tilley 
doubtfully,  in  response  to  this  enthusiastic  an- 
nouncement. 

"  Oh  no,  they  're  stuffed  and  preserved, 
dozens  and  dozens  of  them,"  said  the  ornithol- 
ogist, "  and  I  have  shot  or  snared  every  one 
myself.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  heron 
a  few  miles  from  here  on  Saturday,  and  I  have 
followed  it  in  this  direction.  They  have  never 
been  found  in  this  district  at  all.  The  little 
white  heron,  it  is,"  and  he  turned  again  to 
look  at  Sylvia  with  the  hope  of  discovering  that 
the  rare  bird  was  one  of  her  acquaintances. 

But  Sylvia  was  watching  a  hop-toad  in  the 
narrow  footpath. 

"  You  would  know  the  heron  if  you  saw  it," 
the  stranger  continued  eagerly.  "  A  queer  tall 
white  bird  with  soft  feathers  and  long  thin 
legs.  And  it  would  have  a  nest  perhaps  in 
the  top  of  a  high  tree,  made  of  sticks,  some- 
thing like  a  hawk's  nest." 

Sylvia's  heart  gave  a  wild  beat ;  she  knew 
that  strange  white  bird,  and  had  once  stolen 


A    WHITE  HERON.  11 

softly  near  where  it  stood  in  some  bright  green 
swamp  grass,  away  over  at  the  other  side  of 
fche  woods.  There  was  an  open  place  where 
the  sunshine  always  seemed  strangely  yellow 
and  hot,  where  tall,  nodding  rushes  grew,  and 
her  grandmother  had  warned  her  that  she 
might  sink  in  the  soft  black  mud  underneath 
and  never  be  heard  of  more.  Not  far  beyond 
were  the  salt  marshes  just  this  side  the  sea 
itself,  which  Sylvia  wondered  and  dreamed 
much  about,  but  never  had  seen,  whose  great 
voice  could  sometimes  be  heard  above  the  noise 
of  the  woods  on  stormy  uights. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  I  should  like  so 
much  as  to  find  that  heron's  nest,"  the  hand- 
some stranger  was  saying.  "  I  would  give  ten 
dollars  to  anybody  who  could  show  it  to  me," 
he  added  desperately,  "  and  I  mean  to  spend 
my  whole  vacation  hunting  for  it  if  need  be. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  migrating,  or  had  been 
chased  out  of  its  own  region  by  some  bird  of 
prey."  ~, 

Mrs.  Tilley  gave  amazed  attention  to  all  this,  | 
but  Sylvia  still  watched  the  toad,  not  divining. 
as  she  might  have  done  at  some  calmer  time, 
that  the  creature  wished  to  get  to  its  hole  un- 


12  A    WHITE  HERON. 

der  the  door-step,  aiid  was  much  hindered  by 
the  unusual  spectators  at  that  hour  of  the  even- 
/  ing.  No  amount  of  thought,  that  night,  could 
decide  how  many  wished-for  treasures  the  ten 
dollars,  so  lightly  spoken  of,  would  buy. 

The  next  day  the  young  sportsman  hovered 
about  the  woods,  and  Sylvia  kept  him  company, 
having  lost  her  first  fear  of  the  friendly  lad, 
who  proved  to  be  most  kind  and  sympathetic. 
He  told  her  many  things  about  the  birds  and 
what  they  knew  and  where  they  lived  and  what 
they  did  with  themselves.  And  he  gfave  her  a 
jack-knife,  which  she  thought  as  great  a  treas/^ 
urejis  if  she  were  a  desert-islander."  AU  day 
long  he  did  not  once  make  her  troubled  or 
afraid  except  when  he  brought  down  some  un- 
suspecting singing  creature  from  its  bough. 
Sylvia  would  have  liked  him  vastly  better  with- 
out his  gun ;  she  could  not  understand  why 
he  killed  the  very  birds  he  seemed  to  like  so 
much.  But  as  the  day  waned,  Sylvia  still 
watched  the  young  man  with  loving  admiration. 
She  had  never  seen  anybody  so  charming  and 
delightful ;  the  woman's  heart,  asleep  in  the 
shild,  was  vaguely  thrilled  by  a  dream  of  love 


A    WHITE  HERON.  13 

Some  premonition  of  that  great  power  stirred 
and  swayed  these  young  creatures  who  trav- 
ersed the  solemn  woodlands  with  soft-footed 
silent  care.  They  stopped  to  listen  to  a  bird's 
song;  they  pressed  forward  again  eagerly, 
parting  the  branches  —  speaking  to  each  other 
rarely  and  in  whispers ;  the  young  man  going 
first  and  Sylvia  following,  fascinated,  a  few 
steps  behind,  with  her  gray  eyes  dark  with  ex- 
citement. 

She  grieved  because  the  longed-for  white 
heron  was  elusive,  but  she  did  not  lead^  the 
guest,  she  only  followed,  and  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  speaking  first.  The  sound  of 
her  own  unquestioned  voice  would  have  terri- 
fied her  —  it  was  hard  enough  to  answer  yes 
or  no  when  there  was  need  of  that.  At  last 
evening  began  to  fall,  and  they  drove  the  cow 
home  together,  and  Sylvia  smiled  with  pleasure 
when  they  came  to  the  place  where  she  heard 
the  whistle  and  was  afraid  only  the  night 
before. 


14  A    WHITE  HERON. 


n. 

Half  a  mile  from  home,  at  the  farther  edge 
of  the  woods,  where  the  land  was  highest,  a 
great  pine-tree  stood,  the  last  of  its  generation. 
Whether  it  was  left  for  a  boundary  mark,  OP 
for  what  reason,  no  one  could  say  ;  the  wood- 
choppers  who  had  felled  its  mates  were  dead 
and  gone  long  ago,  and  a  whole  forest  of 
sturdy  trees,  pines  and  oaks  and  maples,  had 
grown  again.  But  the  stately  head  of  this  old 
pine  towered  above  them  all  and  made  a  land- 
mark for  sea  and  shore  miles  and  miles  away. 
Sylvia  knew  it  well.  She  had  always  believed 
that  whoever  climbed  to  the  top  of  it  couldljee 
the  ocean  ;  and  the  little  girl  had  often  laid  her 
hand  on  the  great  rough  trunk  and  looked  up 
wistfully  at  those  dark  boughs  that  the  wind 
always  stirred,  no  matter  how  hot  and  still  the 
air  might  be  below.  Now  she  thought  of  the 
tree  with  a  new  excitement,  for  why,  if  one 
climbed  it  at  break  of  day  could  not  one  see  all 
the  world,  and  easily  discover  from  whence  the 
white  heron  flew,  and  mark  the  place,  and  find 
the  hidden  nest  ? 


A    WHITE  HERON.  15 

What  a  spirit  of  adventure,  what  wild  am- 
bition !  What  fancied  triumph  and  delight 
and  glory  for  the  later  morning  when  she 
could  make  known  the  secret !  It  was  almost 
too  real  and  too  great  for  the  childish  heart 
to  bear. 

All  night  the  door  of  the  little  house  stood 
open  and  the  whippoorwills  came  and  sang 
upon  the  very  step.  The  young  sportsman 
and  his  old  hostess  were  sound  asleep,  but 
Sylvia's  great  design  kept  her  broad  awake 
and  watching.  She  forgot  to  think  of  sleep. 
The  short  summer  night  seemed  as  long  as  the 
winter  darkness,  and  at  last  when  the  whip- 
poorwills ceased,  and  she  was  afraid  the  morn- 
ing would  after  all  come  too  soon,  she  stole  out 
of  the  house  and  followed  the  pasture  path 
through  the  woods,  hastening  toward  the  open 
ground  beyond,  listening  with  a  sense  of  com- 
fort and  companionship  to  the  drowsy  twitter 
of  a  half -awakened  bird,  whose  perch  she  had 
jarred  in  passing.  Alas,  if  the  g^reat  wavj^of , 
human  interest  which  flooded  for  the  first  time 
this  dull  little  life  should  sweep  away  the  satis- 
factions of  an  existence  heart  to  heart  with 
nature  and  the  dumb  life  of  the  forest ! 


16  A    WHITE  HERON. 

There  was  the  huge  tree,  asleep  yet  in  the 
paling  moonlight,  and  small  and  silly  Sylvia 
began  with  utmost  bravery  to  mount  to  the  top 
of  it,  with  tingling,  eager  blood  coursing  the 
channels  of  her  whole  frame,  with  her  bare 
feet  and  fingers,  that  pinched^and  held  like 
bird's  claws  to  the  monstrous  ladder  reaching 
up,up,  almost  foffce  skyHiseTf.  First  she  must 
mount  the  white  oak  tree  that  grew  alongside, 
where  she  was  almost  lost  among  the  dark 
branches  and  the  green  leaves  heavy  and  wet 
with  dew  ;  a  bird  fluttered  off  its  nest,  and  a  red 
squirrel  ran  to  and  fro  and  scolded  pettishly  at 
the  harmless  housebreaker.  Sylvia  felt  her  way 
easily.  She  had  often  climbed  there,  and  knew 
that  higher  still  one  of  the  oak's  upper  branches 
chafed  against  the  pine  trunk,  just  where  its 
lower  boughs  were  set  close  together.  There, 
when  she  made  the  dangerous  pass  from  one 
tree  to  the  other,  the  great  enterprise  would 
really  begin. 

She  crept  out  along  the  swaying  oak  limb 
at  last,  and  took  the  daring  step  across  into 
the  old  pine-tree.  The  way  was  harder  than 
she  thought ;  she  must  reach  far  and  hold  fast, 
the  sharp  dry  twigs  caught  and  held  her  and 


A    WHITE  HERON.  17 

scratched  her  like  angry  talons,  the  pitch  made 
her  thin  little  fingers  clumsy  and  stiff  as  she 
went  round  and  round  the  tree's  great  stem, 
higher  and  higher  upward.  The  sparrows  and 
robins  in  the  woods  below  were  beginning  to 
wake  and  twitter  to  the  dawn,  yet  it  seemed 
much  lighter  there  aloft  in  the  pine-tree,  and 
the  child  knew  she  must  hurry  if  her  project 
were  to  be  of  any  use. 

The  tree  seemed  to  lengthen  itself  out  as  she 
went  up,  and  to  reach  farther  and  farther  up- 
ward. It_was  like  a  great  main-mast  to  the__ 
voyaging  earth ;  it  must  truly  have  been 
amazed  that  morning  through  all  its  ponder- 
ous frame  as  it  felt  this  determined  spark  of 
human  spirit  wending*  its  way  irom  higher' 
branch  to  branch.  Who^knows  how  steadily 
the_Jeast  twigs  held  themselves  to  advantage 
this  light,  weak  creature  on  her  way !  The  old 
pine  must  have  loved  his  new  dependent.  More 
than  all  the  hawks,  and  bats,  and  moths,  and 
even  the  sweet  voiced  thrushes,  was  the  brave, 
beating  heart  of  the  solitary  gray-eyed  child. 
And  the  tree  stood  still  and  frowned  away  the 
winds  that  June  morning  while  the  dawn  grew 
bright  in  the  east. 


18  A    WHITE  HERON 

Sylvia's  face  was  like  a  pale  star,  if  one  had 
seen  it  from  the  ground,  when  the  last  thorny 
bough  was  past,  and  she  stood  trembling  and 
tired  but  wholly  triumphant,  high  in  the  tree- 
top.  Yes,  there  was  the  sea  with  the  dawning 
sun  making  a  golden  dazzle  over  it,  and  to- 
ward that  glorious  east  flew  two  hawks  with 
slow-moving  pinions.  How  low  they  looked  in 
the  air  from  that  height  when  one  had  only 
seen  them  before  far  up,  and  dark  against  the 
blue  sky.  Their  gray  feathers  were  as  soft  as 
moths ;  they  seemed  only  a  little  way  from  the 
tree,  and  Sylvia  felt  as  if  she  too  could  go 
flying  away  among  the  clouds.  Westward,  the 
woodlands  and  farms  reached  miles  and  miles 
into  the  distance  ;  here  and  there  were  church 
steeples,  and  white  villages,  truly  it  was  a  vast 
and  awesome  world ! 

The  birds  sang  louder  and  louder.  At  last 
the  sun  came  up  bewilderingly  bright.  Sylvia 
could  see  the  white  sails  of  ships  out  at  sea, 
and  the  clouds  that  were  purple  and  rose-col- 
ored and  yellow  at  first  began  to  fade  away. 
Where  was  the  white  heron's  nest  in  the  sea 
of  green  branches,  and  was  this  wonderful 
sight  and  pageant  of  the  world  the  only  re- 


A    WHITE  HERON.  19 

ward  for  having  climbed  to  such  a  giddy 
height  ?  Now  look  down  again,  Sylvia,  where 
the  green  marsh  is  set  among  the  shining 
birches  and  dark  hemlocks ;  there  where  you 
saw  the  white  heron  once  you  will  see  him 
again  ;  look,  look  !  a  white  spot  of  him  like  a 
single  floating  feather  comes  up  from  the  dead 
hemlock  and  grows  larger,  and  rises,  and  comes 
close  at  last,  and  goes  by  the  landmark  pine 
with  steady  sweep  of  wing  and  outstretched 
slender  neck  and  crested  head.  And  wait ! 
wait !  do  not  move  a  foot  or  a  finger,  little 
girl,  do  not  send  an  arrow  of  light  and  con- 
sciousness from  your  two  eager  eyes,  for  the 
heron  has  perched  on  a  pine  bough  not  far  be- 
yond yours,  and  cries  back  to  his  mate  on  the 
nest  and  plumes  his  feathers  for  the  new  day ! 
The  child  gives  a  long  sigh  a  minute  later 
when  a  company  of  shouting  cat-birds  comes 
also  to  the  tree,  and  vexed  by  their  fluttering 
and  lawlessness  the  solemn  heron  goes  away. 
She  knows  his  secret  now,  the  wild,  lightIjslen- 
4er  bird  that  floats  and  wavers,  and  goes  back 
like  an  arrow  presently  to  his  home  in  the 
green  world  beneath.  Then  Sylvia,  well  satis- 
fied,makes  her  penJous^way  down"  again,  not 


20  A    WHITE  HERON. 

daring  to  look  far  below  the  branch  she  stands 
on,  ready  to  cry  sometimes  because  her  fingers 
ache  and  her  lamed  feet  slip.  Wondering  over 
and  over  again  what  the  stranger  would  say  to 
her,  and  what  he  would  think  when  she  told 
him  how  to  find  his  way  straight  to  the  heron's 
nest. 

"  Sylvy,  Sylvy  !  "  called  the  busy  old  grand- 
mother again  and  again,  but  nobody  answered, 
and  the  small  husk  bed  was  empty  and  Sylvia 
had  disappeared. 

The  guest  waked  from  a  dream,  and  remem- 
bering his  day's  pleasure  hurried  to  dress  him- 
self that  might  it  sooner  begin.  He  was  sure 
from  the  way  the  shy  little  girl  looked  once  or 
twice  yesterday  that  she  had  at  least  seen  the 
white  heron,  and  now  she  must  really  be  made 
to  tell.  Here  she  comes  now,  paler  than  ever, 
and  her  worn  old  frock  is  torn  and  tattered, 
and  smeared  with  pine  pitch.  The  grand- 
mother and  the  sportsman  stand  in  the  door 
together  and  question  her,  and  the  splendid 
moment  has  come  to  speak  of  the  dead  hem- 
lock-tree by  the  green  marsh. 

But  Sylvia  does  not  speak  after  all,  though 


A    WHITE  HERON.  21 

the  old  grandmother  fretfully  rebukes  her,  and 
the  young  man's  kind,  appealing  eyes  are  look- 
ing straight  in  her  own.  '  He  can  make  them 
rich  with  money;  he  has  promised  it,  and  they 
are  poor  now.  He  is  so  well  worth  making 
happy,  and  he  waits  to  hear  the  story  she  can 
tell. 

No,  she  must  keep  silence  !    What  is  it  that        |T  5L  XN 
suddenly  forbids  her  and  makes   her  dumb? 
Has  she  been  nine  years  growing  and   now,         ?  f1"  ' 
when  the  great  world  for  the  first  time  puts  out         v     ff"  > 
a  hand  to  her,  must  she  thrust  it  aside  for  a 
bird's  sake  ?    The  murmur  of  the  pine's  green 
branches  is  in  her  ears,  she  remembers  how  the 
white  heron  came  flying  through  the  golden 
air  and  how  they  watched  the  sea  and  the 
morning  together,  and  Sylvia  cannot  speak ; 
she  cannot  tell  the  heron's  secret  and  give  its 
life  away. 

Pear  loyalty,  {that  suffered  a  sharp  pang 
as  tneT  guesT  went  away  disappointed  later 
in  the  day,  that  could  have  served  and  fol- 
lowed him  and  loved  him  as  a  dog  loves ! 
Iflany  a  night  Sylvia  heard  the  echo  of  his 
whistle  haunting  the  pasture  path  as  she  came 


22  A    WHITE  HERON. 

home  with  the  loitering  cow.  She  forgot  even 
her  sorrow  at  the  sharp  report  of  his  gun  and 
the  sight  of  thrushes  and  sparrows  dropping 
silent  to  the  ground,  their  songs  hushed  and 
their  pretty  feathers  stained  and  wet  with 
blood.  Were  the  birds  better  friends  than 
their  hunter  might  have  been,  —  who  can  tell  ? 
Whatever  treasures  were  lost  to  her,  wood- 
lands and  summer-time,  remember!  Bring 
your  gifts  and  graces  and  tell  your  secrets  to 
this  lonely  country  child ! 


THE  GKAY  MAN. 

HIGH  on  the  southern 'slope  of  Agamenticus 
there  may  still  be  seen  the  remnant  of  an  old 
farm.  Frost-shaken  stone  walls  surround  a 
fast-narrowing  expanse  of  smooth  turf  which 
the  forest  is  overgrowing  on  every  side.  The 
cellar  is  nearly  filled  up,  never  having  been 
either  wide  or  deep,  and  the  fruit  of  a  few 
mossy  apple-trees  drops  ungathered  to  the 
ground.  Along  one  side  of  the  forsaken  gar- 
den is  a  thicket  of  seedling  cherry-treek  to 
which  the  shouting  robins  come  year  after  year 
in  busy  flights ;  the  caterpillars'  nests  are  un- 
assailed  and  populous  in  this  untended  hedge. 
At  night,  perhaps,  when  summer  twilights  are 
late  in  drawing  their  brown  curtain  of  dusk 
over  the  great  rural  scene,  —  at  night  an  owl 
may  sit  in  the  hemlocks  near  by  and  hoot  and 
shriek  until  the  far  echoes  answer  back  again. 
As  for  the  few  men  and  women  who  pass  this 
deserted  spot,  most  will  be  repulsed  by  such 


24  THE   GRAY  MAN. 

loneliness,  will  even  grow  impatient  with  those 
mistaken  fellow -beings  who  choose  to  live 
in  solitude,  away  from  neighbors  and  from 
schools,  —  yes,  even  from  gossip  and  petty 
care  of  self  or  knowledge  of  the  trivial  fash- 
ions of  a  narrow  life. 

Now  and  then  one  looks  out  from  this  eyrie, 
across  the  wide-spread  country,  who  turns  to 
look  at  the  sea  or  toward  the  shining  foreheads 
of  the  mountains  that  guard  the  inland  hori- 
zon, who  will  remember  the  place  long  after- 
ward. A  peaceful  vision  will  come,  full  of 
rest  and  benediction  into  busy  and  troubled 
hours,  to  those  who  understand  why  some  one 
came  to  live  in  this  place  so  near  the  sky,  so 
silent,  so  full  of  sweet  air  and  woodland  fra- 
grance; so  beaten  and  buffeted  by  winter 
storms  and  garlanded  with  summer  greenery ; 
where  the  birds  are  nearest  neighbors  and  a 
clear  spring  the  only  wine-cellar,  and  trees  of 
the  forest  a  choir  of  singers  who  rejoice  and 
sing  aloud  by  day  and  night  as  the  winds 
sweep  over.  Under  the  cherry  thicket  or  at 
the  edge  of  the  woods  you  may  find  a  stray- 
away  blossom,  some  half -savage,  slender  grand- 
child of  the  old  flower-plots,  that  you  gather 


THE   GRAY  MAN.  25 

gladly  to  take  away,  and  every  year  in  June  a 
red  rose  blooms  toward  which  the  wild  pink 
roses  and  the  pale  sweet  briars  turn  wonder- 
ing faces  as  if  a  queen  had  shown  her  noble 
face  suddenly  at  a  peasant's  festival. 

There  is  everywhere  a  token  of  remem- 
brance, of  silence  and  secrecy.  Some  stronger 
nature  once  ruled  these  neglected  trees  and 
this  fallow  ground.  They  will  wait  the  re- 
turn of  their  master  as  long  as  roots  can  creep 
through  mould,  and  the  mould  make  way  for 
them.  The  stories  of  strange  lives  have  been 
whispered  to  the  earth,  their  thoughts  have 
burned  themselves  into  the  cold  rocks.  As 
one  looks  from  the  lower  country  toward  the 
long  slope  of  the  great  hillside,  this  old  abid- 
ing-place marks  the  dark  covering  of  trees  like 
a  scar.  There  is  nothing  to  hide  either  the 
sunrise  or  the  sunset.  The  low  lands  reach  out 
of  sight  into  the  west  and  the  sea  fills  all  the 
east. 

The  first  owner  of  the  farm  was  a  seafaring 
man  who  had  through  freak  or  fancy  come 
ashore  and  cast  himself  upon  the  bounty  of 
nature  for  support  in  his  later  years,  though 
tradition  keeps  a  suspicion  of  buried  treasure 


26  THE   GRAY  MAN. 

and  of  a  dark  history.  He  cleared  his  land 
and  built  his  house,  but  save  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  Scotsman  no  one  knew  to  whom  he  be- 
longed, and  when  he  died  the  state  inherited 
the  unclaimed  property.  The  only  piece  of 
woodland  that  was  worth  anything  was  sold  and 
added  to  another  farm,  and  the  dwelling-place 
was  left  to  the  sunshine  and  the  rain,  to  the 
birds  that  built  their  nests  in  the  chimney  or 
under  the  eaves.  Sometimes  a  strolling  com- 
pany of  country  boys  would  find  themselves 
near  the  house  on  a  holiday  afternoon,  but  the 
more  dilapidated  the  small  structure  became, 
the  more  they  believed  that  some  uncanny  ex- 
istence possessed  the  lonely  place,  and  the  path 
that  led  toward  the  clearing  at  last  became 
almost  impassable. 

Once  a  number  of  officers  and  men  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  Coast  Survey  were  encamped  at  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  and  they  smoothed  the 
rough  track  that  led  down  to  the  spring  that 
bubbled  from  under  a  sheltering  edge.  One 
day  a  laughing  fellow,  not  content  with  peering 
in  at  the  small  windows  of  the  house,  put  his 
shoulder  against  the  rain-blackened  door  and 
broke  the  simple  fastening.  He  hardly  knew 


THE   GRAY  MAN.  27 

that  he  was  afraid  as  he  first  stood  within  the 
single  spacious  room,  so  complete  a  curiosity 
took  possession  of  him.  The  place  was  clean 
and  bare,  the  empty  cupboard  doors  stood  open, 
and  yet  the  sound  of  his  companions'  voices  out- 
side seemed  far  away,  and  an  awful  sense  that 
some  unseen  inhabitant  followed  his  footsteps 
made  him  hurry  out  again  pale  and  breathless 
to  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine.  Was  this  really 
a  dwelling:place  of  spirits,  as  had  been  already 
hinted?  The  story  grew  more  fearful,  and 
spread  quickly  like  a  mist  of  terror  among  the 
lowland  farms.  For  years  the  tale  of  the  coast- 
surveyor's  adventure  in  the  haunted  house  was 
slowly  magnified  and  told  to  strangers  or  to 
wide-eyed  children  by  the  dim  firelight.  The 
former  owner  was  supposed  to  linger  still 
about  his  old  home,  and  was  held  accountable 
for  deep  offense  in  choosing  for  the  scene  of  his 
unsuccessful  husbandry  a  place  that  escaped 
the  proprieties  and  restraints  of  life  upon 
lower  levels.  His  grave  was  concealed  by  the 
new  growth  of  oaks  and  beeches,  and  many  a 
lad  and  full-grown  man  beside  has  taken  to 
his  heels  at  the  flicker  of  light  from  across  a 
swamp  or  under  a  decaying  tree  in  that  neigh- 


28  THE  GRAY  MAN. 

borhood.  As  the  world  in  some  respects  grew 
wiser,  the  good  people  near  the  mountain  un- 
derstood less  and  less  the  causes  of  these  sim- 
ple effects,  and  as  they  became  familiar  with 
the  visible  world,  grew  more  shy  of  the  unseen 
and  more  sensitive  to  unexplained  foreboding. 

One  day  a  stranger  was  noticed  in  the  town, 
as  a  stranger  is  sure  to  be  who  goes  his  way 
with  quick,  furtive  steps  straight  through  a 
small  village  or  along  a  country  road.  This 
man  was  tall  and  had  just  passed  middle  age. 
He  was  well  made  and  vigorous,  but  there  was 
an  unusual  pallor  in  his  face,  a  grayish  look, 
as  if  he  had  been  startled  by  bad  news.  His 
clothes  were  somewhat  peculiar,  as  if  they  had 
been  made  in  another  country,  yet  they  suited 
the  chilly  weather,  being  homespun  of  undyed 
wools,  just  the  color  of  his  hair,  and  only  a 
little  darker  than  his  face  or  hands.  Some  one 
observed  in  one  brief  glance  as  he  and  this 
gray  man  met  and  passed  each  other,  that  his 
eyes  had  a  strange  faded  look  ;  they  might, 
however,  flash  and  be  coal-black  in  a  moment 
of  rage.  Two  or  three  persons  stepped  for- 
ward to  watch  the  wayfarer  as  he  went  along 


THE   GRAY  MAN.  29 

the  road  with  long,  even  strides,  like  one  tak- 
ing a  journey  on  foot,  but  he  quickly  reached 
a  turn  of  the  way  and  was  out  of  sight.  They 
wondered  who  he  was ;  one  recalled  some  re- 
cent advertisement  of  an  escaped  criminal,  and 
another  the  appearance  of  a  native  of  the  town 
who  was  supposed  to  be  long  ago  lost  at  sea, 
but  one  surmiser  knew  as  little  as  the  next. 
If  they  had  followed  fast  enough  they  might 
have  tracked  the  mysterious  man  straight 
across  the  country,  threading  the  by-ways, 
the  shorter  paths  that  led  across  the  fields 
where  the  road  was  roundabout  and  hinder- 
ing. At  last  he  disappeared  in  the  leafless, 
trackless  woods  that  skirted  the  mountain. 

That  night  there  was  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years  a  twinkling  light  in  the  window  of 
the  haunted  house,  high  on  the  hill's  great 
shoulder ;  one  farmer's  wife  and  another  looked 
up  curiously,  while  they  wondered  what  dar- 
ing human  being  had  chosen  that  awesome 
spot  of  all  others  for  his  home  or  for  even  a 
transient  shelter.  The  sky  was  already  heavy 
with  snow ;  he  might  be  a  fugitive  from  jus- 
tice, and  the  startled  people  looked  to  the  fast- 
ening of  their  doors  unwontedly  that  night, 
and  waked  often  from  a  troubled  sleep. 


30  THE  GRAY  MAN. 

An  instinctive  curiosity  and  alarm  possessed 
the  country  men  and  women  for  a  while,  but 
soon  faded  out  and  disappeared.  The  new- 
comer was  by  no  means  a  hermit ;  he  tried  to 
be  friendly,  and  inclined  toward  a  certain 
kindliness  and  familiarity.  He  bought  a  com- 
fortable store  of  winter  provisions  from  his 
new  acquaintances,  giving  every  one  his  price, 
and  spoke  more  at  length,  as  time  went  on, 
of  current  events,  of  politics  and  the  weather, 
and  the  town's  own  news  and  concerns.  There 
was  a  sober  cheerfulness  about  the  man,  as  if 
he  had  known  trouble  and  perplexity,  and  was 
fulfilling  some  mission  that  gave  him  pain ; 
yet  he  saw  some  gain  and  reward  beyond ; 
therefore  he  could  be  contented  with  his  life 
and  such  strange  surroundings.  He  was  more 
and  more  eager  to  form  brotherly  relations 
with  the  farmers  near  his  home.  There  was  al- 
most a  pleading  look  in  his  kind  face  at  times, 
as  if  he  feared  the  later  prejudice  of  his  asso- 
ciates. Surely  this  was  no  common  or  uned- 
ucated person,  for  in  every  way  he  left  the 
stamp  of  his  character  and  influence  upon 
men  and  things.  His  reasonable  words  of  ad- 
vice and  warning  are  current  as  sterling  coins 


THE  GRAY  MAN.  31 

in  that  region  yet ;  to  one  man  he  taught  a 
new  rotation  of  crops,  to  another  he  gave  some 
priceless  cures  for  devastating  diseases  of  cat- 
tle. The  lonely  women  of  those  remote  coun- 
try homes  learned  of  him  how  to  achieve  their 
household  toil  with  less  labor  and  drudgery, 
and  here  and  there  he  singled  out  promis- 
ing children  and  kept  watch  of  their  growth, 
giving  freely  a  most  affectionate  companion- 
ship, and  a  fair  start  in  the  journey  of  life. 
He  taught  those  who  were  guardians  of  such 
children  to  recognize  and  further  the  true 
directions  and  purposes  of  existence  ;  and  the 
easily  warped  natures  grew  strong  and  well- 
established  under  his  thoughtful  care.  No 
wonder  that  some  people  were  filled  with 
amazement,  and  thought  his  wisdom  supernat- 
ural, from  so  many  proofs  that  his  horizon  was 
wider  than  their  own. 

Perhaps  some  envious  soul,  or  one  aggrieved 
by  being  caught  in  treachery  or  deception,  was 
the  first  to  find  fault  with  the  stranger.  The 
prejudice  against  his  dwelling-place,  and  the 
superstition  which  had  become  linked  to  him 
in  consequence,  may  have  led  back  to  the  first 
suspicious  attitude  of  the  community.  The 


32  THE   GRAY  MAN. 

whisper  of  distrust  soon  started  on  an  evil 
way.  If  he  were  not  a  criminal,  his  past  was 
surely  a  hidden  one,  and  shocking  to  his  re- 
membrance, but  the  true  foundation  of  all  dis- 
like was  the  fact  that  the  gray  man  who  went 
to  and  fro,  living  his  simple,  harmless  life 
among  them,  never  was  seen  to  smile.  Per- 
sons who  remember  him  speak  of  this  with  a 
shudder,  for  nothing  is  more  evident  than  that 
his  peculiarity  became  at  length  intolerable  to 
those  whose  minds  lent  themselves  readily  to 
suspicion.  At  first,  blinded  by  the  gentle 
good  fellowship  of  the  stranger,  the  change- 
less expression  of  his  face  was  scarcely  ob- 
served, but  as  the  winter  wore  away  he  was 
watched  with  renewed  disbelief  and  dismay. 

After  the  first  few  attempts  at  gayety  no- 
body tried  to  tell  a  merry  story  in  his  pres* 
ence.  The  most  conspicuous  of  a  joker's  au- 
dience does  a  deep-rankling  injustice  if  he  sits 
with  unconscious,  unamused  face  at  the  receipt 
of  raillery.  What  a  chilling  moment  when 
the  gray  man  softly  opened  the  door  of  a 
farmhouse  kitchen,  and  seated  himself  like  a 
skeleton  at  the  feast  of  walnuts  and  roasted 
apples  beside  the  glowing  fire  !  The  children 


THE   GRAY  MAN.  33 

whom  he  treated  so  lovingly,  to  whom  he  ever 
gave  his  best,  though  they  were  won  at  first 
by  his  gentleness,  when  they  began  to  prattle 
and  play  with  him  would  raise  their  innocent 
eyes  to  his  face  and  hush  their  voices  and 
creep  away  out  of  his  sight.  Once  only  he 
was  bidden  to  a  wedding,  but  never  afterward, 
for  a  gloom  was  quickly  spread  through  the 
boisterous  company ;  the  man  who  never  smiled 
had  no  place  at  such  a  festival.  The  wedding 
guests  looked  over  their  shoulders  again  and 
again  in  strange  foreboding,  while  he  was  in 
the  house,  and  were  burdened  with  a  sense  of 
coming  woe  for  the  newly-married  pair.  As 
one  caught  sight  of  his,  among  the  faces  of 
the  rural  folk,  the  gray  man  was  like  a  som- 
bre mask,  and  at  last  the  bridegroom  flung 
open  the  door  with  a  meaning  gesture,  and  the 
stranger  went  out  like  a  hunted  creature,  into 
the  bitter  coldness  and  silence  of  the  winter 
night. 

Through  the  long  days  of  the  next  summer 
the  outcast  of  the  wedding,  forbidden,  at 
length,  all  the  once-proffered  hospitality,  was 
hardly  seen  from  one  week's  end  to  another's. 
He  cultivated  his  poor  estate  with  patient 


34  THE  GRAY  MAN. 

care,  and  the  successive  crops  of  his  small 
garden,  the  fruits  and  berries  of  the  wilder- 
ness, were  food  enough.  He  seemed  unchange- 
able, and  was  always  ready  when  he  even 
guessed  at  a  chance  to  be  of  use.  If  he  were 
repulsed,  he  only  turned  away  and  went  back 
to  his  solitary  home.  Those  persons  who  by 
chance  visited  him  there  tell  wonderful  tales 
of  the  wild  birds  which  had  been  tamed  to 
come  at  his  call  and  cluster  about  him,  of  the 
orderliness  and  delicacy  of  his  simple  life. 
The  once-neglected  house  was  covered  with 
vines  that  he  had  brought  from  the  woods, 
and  planted  about  the  splintering,  decaying 
walls.  There  were  three  or  four  books  in 
worn  bindings  on  a  shelf  above  the  fire-place ; 
one  longs  to  know  what  volumes  this  mysteri- 
ous exile  had  chosen  to  keep  him  company ! 

There  may  have  been  a  deeper  reason  for 
the  withdrawal  of  friendliness  ;  there  are  vague 
rumors  of  the  gray  man's  possession  of  strange 
powers.  Some  say  that  he  was  gifted  with 
amazing  strength,  and  once  when  some  belated 
hunters  found  shelter  at  his  fireside,  they  told 
eager  listeners  afterward  that  he  did  not  sleep 
but  sat  by  the  fire  reading  gravely  while  they 


THE   GRAY  MAN  35 

slumbered  uneasily  on  his  own  bed  of  boughs. 
And  in  the  dead  of  night  an  empty  chair 
glided  silently  toward  him  across  the  floor  as 
he  softly  turned  his  pages  in  the  flickering 
light. 

But  such  stories  are  too  vague,  and  in  that 
neighborhood  too  common  to  weigh  against  the 
true  dignity  and  bravery  of  the  man.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  war  of  the  rebellion  he  seemed 
strangely  troubled  and  disturbed,  and  pres- 
ently disappeared,  leaving  his  house  key  with 
a  neighbor  as  if  for  a  few  days'  absence.  He 
was  last  seen  striding  rapidly  through  the  vil- 
lage a  few  miles  away,  going  back  along  the 
road  by  which  he  had  come  a  year  or  two  be- 
fore. No,  not  last  seen  either ;  for  in  one  of 
the  first  battles  of  the  war,  as  the  smoke  sud- 
denly lifted,  a  farmer's  boy,  reared  in  the 
shadow  of  the  mountain,  opened  his  languid 
pain-dulled  eyes  as  he  lay  among  the  wounded, 
and  saw  the  gray  man  riding  by  on  a  tall 
horse.  At  that  moment  the  poor  lad  thought 
in  his  faintness  and  fear  that  Death  himself 
rode  by  in  the  gray  man's  likeness  ;  unsmiling 
Death  who  tries  to  teach  and  serve  mankind 
so  that  he  may  at  the  last  win  welcome  as  a 
faithful  friend ! 


FARMER  FINCH. 

IT  was  as  bleak  and  sad  a  day  as  one  could 
well  imagine.  The  time  of  year  was  early  in 
December,  and  the  daylight  was  already  fad- 
ing, though  it  was  only  a  little  past  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon.  John  Finch  was  driving  to- 
ward his  farm,  which  he  had  left  early  in  the 
morning  to  go  to  town  ;  but  to  judge  from  his 
face  one  might  have  been  sure  that  his  busi- 
ness had  not  been  successful.  He  looked 
pinched  and  discouraged  with  something  besides 
the  cold,  and  he  hardly  noticed  the  faithful 
red  horse  which  carefully  made  its  way  over 
the  frozen  ruts  of  the  familiar  road. 

There  had  lately  been  a  few  days  of  mild 
weather,  when  the  ground  had  had  time  to 
thaw,  but  with  a  sudden  blast  of  cold  this  deep 
mud  had  become  like  iron,  rough  and  ragged, 
and  jarring  the  people  and  horses  cruelly  who 
tried  to  travel  over  it.  The  road  lay  through 
the  bleak  country  side  of  the  salt-marshes 


FARMER  FItiCH.  37 

which  stretched  themselves  away  toward  the 
sea,  dotted  here  and  there  with  hay-cocks,  and 
crossed  in  wavering  lines  by  the  inlets  and 
ditches,  filled  now  with  grayish  ice,  that  was 
sinking  and  cracking  as  the  tide  ran  out.  The 
marsh-grass  was  wind-swept  and  beaten  until 
it  looked  as  soft  and  brown  as  fur ;  the  wind 
had  free  course  over  it,  and  it  looked  like  a 
deserted  bit  of  the  world ;  the  battered  and 
dingy  flat-bottomed  boats  were  fastened  se- 
curely in  their  tiny  harbors,  or  pulled  far 
ashore  as  if  their  usefulness  was  over,  not  only 
for  that  season  but  for  all  time.  In  some  late 
autumn  weather  one  feels  as  if  summer  were 
over  with  forever,  and  as  if  no  resurrection 
could  follow  such  unmistakable  and  hopeless 
death. 

Where  the  land  was  higher  it  looked  rocky 
and  rough,  and  behind  the  marshes  there  were 
some  low  hills  looking  as  if  they  were  solid 
stone  to  their  cores,  and  sparingly  overgrown 
with  black  and  rigid  cedars.  These  stood  erect 
from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  a  most  unbend- 
ing and  heartless  family,  which  meant  to  give 
neither  shade  in  summer  nor  shelter  in  winter. 
No  wind  could  overturn  them,  for  their  roots 


38  FARMER  FINCH. 

went  down  like  wires  into  the  ledges,  and  no 
drought  could  dry  away  the  inmost  channels  of 
vigorous  though  scanty  sap  that  ran  soberly 
through  their  tough,  unfruitful  branches. 

In  one  place  the  hills  formed  an  amphithe* 
atre  open  on  the  side  toward  the  sea,  and  here 
on  this  bleak  day  it  seemed  as  if  some  dismal 
ceremony  were  going  forward.  As  one  caught 
sight  of  the  solemn  audience  of  black  and 
gloomy  cedars  that  seemed  to  have  come  to- 
gether to  stand  on  the  curving  hillsides,  one 
instinctively  looked  down  at  the  level  arena  of 
marsh-land  below,  half  fearing  to  see  some 
awful  sacrificial  rite  or  silent  combat.  It 
might  be  an  angry  company  of  hamadryads 
who  had  taken  the  shape  of  cedar-trees  on  this 
day  of  revenge  and  terror.  It  was  difficult  to 
believe  that  one  would  ever  see  them  again, 
and  that  the  summer  and  winter  days  alike 
would  find  them  looking  down  at  the  grave 
business  which  was  invisible  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.  The  little  trees  stood  beside  their 
elders  in  families,  solemn  and  stern,  and  some 
miserable  men  may  have  heard  the  secret  as 
they  stumbled  through  the  snow  praying  for 
shelter,  lost  and  frozen  on  a  winter  night. 


FARMER  FINCH.  39 

If  you  lie  down  along  the  rough  grass  in  the 
slender  shadow  of  a  cedar  and  look  off  to  sea, 
in  a  summer  afternoon,  you  only  hear  a  whis- 
per like  "  Hush !  hush !  "  as  the  wind  comes 
through  the  stiff  branches.  The  boughs  reach 
straight  upward;  you  cannot  lie  underneath 
and  look  through  them  at  the  sky  ;  the  tree  all 
reaches  away  from  the  ground  as  if  it  had  a 
horror  of  it,  and  shrank  from  even  the  breeze 
and  the  sunshine. 

On  this  December  day,  as  the  blasts  of  wind 
struck  them,  they  gave  one  stiff,  unwilling 
bend,  and  then  stood  erect  again.  The  road 
wound  along  between  the  sea-meadows  and  the 
hills,  and  poor  John  Finch  seemed  to  be  the 
only  traveler.  He  was  lost  in  thought,  and  the 
horse  still  went  plodding  on.  The  worn  buf- 
falo-robe was  dragging  from  one  side  of  the 
wagon,  and  had  slipped  down  off  the  driver's 
knees.  He  hardly  knew  that  he  held  the  reins. 
He  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  home,  cold  as  it  was, 
for  he  had  only  bad  news  to  tell. 

Polly  Finch,  his  only  daughter,  was  coming 
toward  home  from  the  opposite  direction,  and 
with  her  also  things  had  gone  wrong.  She  was 
a  bright,  good-natured  girl  of  about  twenty, 


40  FARMER    FINCH. 

but  she  looked  old  and  care-worn  that  day. 
She  was  dressed  in  her  best  clothes,  as  if  she 
had  been  away  on  some  important  affair,  per- 
haps to  a  funeral,  and  she  was  shivering  and 
wholly  chilled  in  spite  of  the  shawl  which  her 
mother  had  insisted  upon  her  carrying.  It  had 
been  a  not  uncomfortable  morning  for  that 
time  of  year,  and  she  had  flouted  the  extra 
wrap  at  first,  but  now  she  hugged  it  close,  and 
half  buried  her  face  in  its  folds.  The  sky  was 
gray  and  heavy,  except  in  the  west,  where  it 
was  a  clear,  cold  shade  of  yellow.  All  the  leaf- 
less bushes  and  fluffy  brown  tops  of  the  dead 
asters  and  golden-rods  stood  out  in  exqui- 
sitely delicate  silhouettes  against  the  sky  on 
the  high  road-sides,  while  some  tattered  bits  of 
blackberry  vine  held  still  a  dull  glow  of  color. 
As  Polly  passed  a  barberry  bush  that  grew 
above  her  she  was  forced  to  stop,  for,  gray  and 
winterish  as  it  had  been  on  her  approach,  when 
she  looked  at  it  from  the  other  side  it  seemed 
to  be  glowing  with  rubies.  The  sun  was  shin- 
ing out  pleasantly  now  that  it  had  sunk  below 
the  clouds,  and  in  these  late  golden  rays  the 
barberry  bush  had  taken  on  a  great  splendor. 
It  gave  Polly  a  start,  and  it  cheered  her  not  a 


FARMER  FINCH.  41 

little,  this  sudden  transformation,  and  she  even 
went  back  along  the  road  a  little  way  to  see  it 
again  as  she  had  at  first  in  its  look  of  misery. 
The  berries  that  still  clung  to  its  thorny 
branches  looked  dry  and  spoiled,  but  a  few 
steps  forward  again  made  them  shine  out,  and 
take  on  a  beauty  that  neither  summer  nor 
autumn  had  given  them,  and  Polly  gave  her 
head  a  little  shake.  "  There  are  two  ways  of 
looking  at  more  things  than  barberry  bushes/' 
she  said,  aloud,  and  went  off  with  brisker  steps 
down  the  road. 

At  home  in  the  farm-house  Mrs.  Finch  had 
been  waiting  for  her  husband  and  daughter  to 
come,  until  she  had  grown  tired  and  hungry 
and  almost  frightened.  Perhaps  the  day  had 
been  longer  and  harder  to  her  than  to  any  one 
else.  She  had  thought  of  so  many  cautions 
and  suggestions  that  she  might  have  given 
them  both,  and  though  the  father's  errand  was 
a  much  more  important  one,  still  she  had  built 
much  hope  on  the  possibility  of  Polly's  en- 
counter with  the  school  committee  proving  suc- 
cessful. Things  had  been  growing  very  dark 
in  Mr.  Finch's  business  affairs,  and  they  had 
all  looked  with  great  eagerness  toward  her 


42  FARMER  FINCH. 

securing  a  situation  as  teacher  of  one  of  the 
town  schools.  It  was  at  no  great  distance,  so 
that  Polly  could  easily  board  at  home,  and 
many  things  seemed  to  depend  upon  it,  even 
if  the  bank  business  turned  out  better  than 
was  feared.  Our  heroine  had  in  her  childhood 
been  much  praised  for  her  good  scholarship, 
and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  district  school, 
and  it  had  been  urged  upon  her  father  and 
mother  by  her  teachers,  and  by  other  friends 
more  or  less  wise,  that  she  should  have  what 
they  called  an  education.  It  had  been  a  hard 
thing  both  for  her  father  to  find  the  money, 
and  for  her  mother  to  get  on  without  her  help 
in  the  house-work,  but  they  had  both  managed 
to  get  along,  and  Polly  had  acquitted  herself 
nobly  in  the  ranks  of  a  neighboring  academy, 
and  for  the  last  year  had  been  a  pupil  in  the 
normal  school.  She  had  been  very  happy  in 
her  school  life,  and  very  popular  both  with 
scholars  and  teachers.  She  was  friendly  and 
social  by  nature,  and  it  had  been  very  pleasant 
to  her  to  be  among  so  many  young  people. 
The  routine  and  petty  ceremony  of  her  years 
of  study  did  not  fret  her,  for  she  was  too 
strong  and  good-natured  even  to  be  worn  upon 


FARMER  FINCH.  43 

or  much  tired  with  the  unwholesome  life  she 
lived.  It  was  easy  enough  for  her  to  get  her 
lessons,  and  so  she  went  through  with  flying 
colors,  and  cried  a  little  when  the  last  day  ar- 
rived ;  but  she  felt  less  regret  than  most  of 
the  girls  who  were  turned  out  then  upon  the 
world,  some  of  them  claiming  truthfully  that 
they  had  finished  their  education,  since  they 
had  not  wit  enough  to  learn  anything  more, 
either  with  school-books  in  their  hands  or 
without  them. 

It  came  to  Polly's  mind  as  she  stood  in  a 
row  with  the  rest  of  the  girls,  while  the  old 
minister  who  was  chief  of  the  trustees  gave 
them  their  diplomas,  and  some  very  good  ad- 
vice besides  :  "  I  wonder  why  we  all  made  up 
our  minds  to  be  teachers  ?  I  wonder  if  we 
are  going  to  be  good  ones,  and  if  I  should  n't 
have  liked  something  else  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter?" 

Certainly  she  had  met  with  a  disappoint- 
ment at  the  beginning  of  her  own  career,  for 
she  had  seen  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to 
be  within  reach  of  home,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
every  school  of  the  better  class  had  been  pro- 
vided with  a  teacher.  She  had  been  so  confi 


44  FARMER  FINCH. 

dent  of  her  powers  and  mindful  of  her  high 
standing  at  the  normal  school  that  it  seemed 
at  first  that  a  fine  position  ought  to  be  hers 
for  the  asking.  But  one  after  another  her 
plans  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  until  this  last 
one,  which  had  just  been  decided  against  her 
also.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  at  first  as 
a  possible  thing  that  she  should  apply  for  the 
small  town  school  in  her  own  district ;  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  was  a  great  downfall  of  pride  to 
the  family,  but  they  had  said  to  each  other 
that  it  would  be  well  for  Polly  to  have  the 
winter  at  home,  and  in  spring  she  could  suit 
herself  exactly.  But  everybody  had  felt  the 
impossibility  of  her  remaining  idle,  and  no 
wonder  her  heart  sank  as  she  went  toward 
home,  knowing  that  she  must  tell  them  that 
another  had  been  chosen  to  fill  the  place. 

Mrs.  Finch  looked  at  the  fire,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  down  the  road,  and  took  up 
the  stocking  she  was  knitting  and  tried  to 
work  at  it ;  but  every  half -hour  that  went  by 
doubled  her  uneasiness,  and  she  looked  out  of 
the  window  altogether  at  last,  until  the  fire 
Was  almost  burned  out,  and  the  knitting  lay 
untouched  in  her  lap.  She  was  a  tall,  fine* 


FARMER  FINCH.  45 

looking  woman,  with  a  worn,  well-featured 
face,  and  thimrish  hair  that  had  once  been 
light  brown,  but  was  much  faded  and  not  a 
little  gray  in  these  later  years.  It  had  been 
thought  a  pity  that  she  married  John  Finch, 
who  had  not  half  so  much  force  as  she,  and 
with  all  her  wisdom  and  affection  and  econ- 
omy, every  year  had  seemed  to  take  away 
something  from  them,  leaving  few  gifts  and 
gains  in  exchange.  At  first  her  pride  and 
ambition,  which  were  reasonable  enough,  al- 
ways clung  to  her  husband's  plans  and  pur- 
poses ;  but  as  she  saw  year  after  year  that  he 
stayed  exactly  in  the  same  place,  making  little 
headway  either  in  farming  or  anything  else, 
she  began  to  live  more  and  more  in  her  daugh- 
ter's life,  and  looked  eagerly  to  see  her  win 
her  way  and  gain  an  honorable  place,  first  in 
her  school  life,  and  afterward  as  a  teacher. 
She  had  never  dreamed  beforehand  of  the  dif- 
ficulties that  had  assailed  Polly  since  she  came 
home  the  head  of  her  class  in  June.  She  had 
supposed  that  it  would  be  an  easy  thing  for 
her  now  to  find  a  good  situation  in  a  high  or 
private  school,  with  a  capital  salary.  She 
hated  to  think  there  was  nothing  for  her  but 


46  FARMER  FINCH. 

to  hold  sway  over  the  few  scholars  in  the  little 
unpainted  school-house  half  a  mile  down  the 
road,  even  though  the  girl,  who  was  the  very 
delight  of  her  heart,  should  be  with  her  so 
much  more  than  they  had  expected  at  first. 
She  was  a  kind,  simple-hearted,  good  woman, 
this  elder  Mary  Finch,  and  she  had  borne  her 
failing  fortunes  with  perfect  bravery  ;  she  had 
been  the  sunshine  and  inspiration  of  the  some- 
what melancholy  house  for  many  years. 

At  last  she  saw  her  husband  coming  along 
the  road,  and  even  that  far-away  first  glimpse 
of  him  told  her  that  she  would  hear  no  good 
news.  He  pulled  up  the  fallen  buffalo-robe 
over  his  lap,  and  sat  erect,  and  tried  to  look 
unconcerned  as  he  drove  into  the  yard,  but  it 
was  some  time  before  he  came  into  the  house. 
He  unharnessed  the  horse  with  stiff  and  shak- 
ing hands,  and  gave  him  his  supper,  and  turned 
the  old  wagon  and  backed  it  into  its  place  be- 
fore he  came  in.  Polly  had  come  home  also 
by  that  time,  and  was  sitting  by  the  window, 
and  did  not  turn  to  speak  to  him.  His  wife 
looked  old,  and  her  face  was  grayish,  and  the 
lines  of  it  were  hard  and  drawn  in  strange 
angles. 


FARMER  FINCB.  47 

"  You  had  better  sit  right  down  by  the  fire, 
John,"  she  told  him,  "  and  I  '11  get  you  and 
Polly  a  good  hot  supper  right  away.  I  think, 
like  's  not,  you  did  n't  get  a  mouthful  of  din- 
ner." 

"  I  've  no  need  to  tell  you  I  Ve  got  bad 
news,"  he  said.  "  The  bank 's  failed,  and 
they  won't  pay  more  'n  ten  cents  on  a  dollar, 
if  they  make  out  to  do  that.  It 's  worse  than 
we  ever  thought  it  could  be.  The  cashier  got 
speculating,  and  he's  made  'way  with  about 
everything." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  known  this 
for  years,  it  was  such  an  old,  sad  story  al- 
ready, and  he  almost  wondered  at  the  surprise 
and  anger  that  his  wife  and  Polly  showed  at 
once.  It  made  him  a  little  impatient  that 
they  would  ask  him  so  many  eager  questions. 
This  was  the  worst  piece  of  misfortune  that 
had  ever  come  to  him.  Although  they  had 
heard  the  day  before  that  the  bank  would  pass 
its  dividend,  and  had  been  much  concerned 
and  troubled,  and  had  listened  incredulously 
.  to  worse  stories  of  the  condition  of  the  bank's 
finances,  they  had  looked  for  nothing  like  this. 

There  was  little  to  be  said,  but  everything 


48  FARMER  FINCH. 

to  be  thought  and  feared.  They  had  put  en- 
tire confidence  in  this  bank's  security,  and  the 
money  which  had  belonged  to  John  Finch's 
father  had  always  been  left  there  to  draw  a 
good  yearly  interest.  The  farm  was  not  very 
productive,  and  they  had  depended  upon  this 
dividend  for  a  large  part  of  their  ready  money. 
Much  of  their  other  property  had  dwindled 
away.  If  ever  there  had  been  a  prospect  of 
making  much  off  the  farm,  something  had  in- 
terfered. One  year  a  piece  of  woodland  had 
been  cleared  at  considerable  expense,  and  on 
the  day  before  its  unlucky  owner  was  to  begin 
to  haul  the  great  stacks  of  fire-wood  down  to 
the  little  wharf  in  the  marshes,  from  whence 
they  could  be  carried  away  to  market  by 
schooners,  the  fire  got  in,  and  the  flames  of 
the  fallen  pines  made  a  torch  that  lighted  all 
that  part  of  the  country  for  more  nights  than 
one.  There  was  no  insurance  and  no  remedy, 
and,  as  an  old  neighbor  told  the  unhappy 
owner,  "  the  woods  would  not  grow  again  in 
his  time."  John  Finch  was  a  cheerful  man 
naturally,  and  very  sure  of  the  success  of  his 
plans  ;  it  was  rare  to  see  him  so  entirely  down- 
hearted and  discouraged,  but  lately  he  had 


FARMER  FINCH.  49 

seemed  to  his  wife  somebody  to  be  protected 
and  looked  after  even  more  than  Polly.  She 
sometimes  felt  the  weight  of  the  years  she  had 
lived,  and  as  if  she  must  be  already  very  old, 
but  he  was  the  same  boyish  person  to  her  as 
when  she  had  married  him;  it  often  seemed 
possible  that  he  should  have  his  life  still  be- 
fore him.  She  could  not  believe  until  very 
lately  that  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  start  out 
on  any  enterprise.  Time  had,  indeed,  touched 
him  more  lightly  than  it  had  herself,  though 
he  had  the  face  and  something  of  the  manner 
and  faults  of  an  elderly  and  unsuccessful  man. 
They  sat  together  in  the  kitchen,  which  had 
suddenly  grown  dark.  Mary  Finch  was  as 
cold  as  either  of  her  companions,  and  was  an- 
gry with  herself  for  her  shivering  and  want  of 
courage.  She  was  almost  afraid  to  speak  at 
last  for  fear  of  crying ;  she  felt  strangely  un- 
strung and  weak.  The  two  women  had  told 
John  of  Polly's  disappointment,  that  the  agent 
for  the  district  had  given  the  school  to  his  c/wn 
niece,  a  young  girl  from  Salem,  who  was  to 
board  at  his  house,  and  help  his  wife  as  much 
as  she  could  with  the  house- work  out  of  school- 
hours.  "  It 's  all  of  a  piece  to-day,"  groaned 
the  farmer.  "  I  'm  sorry  for  ye,  Polly." 


50  FARMER  FINCH. 

"  She  may  hear  of  something  yet,"  said  Mrs. 
Finch,  making  a  great  effort  to  speak  cheer- 
fully. "  You  know  they  have  her  name  at  the 
normal  school ;  people  are  always  sending  there 
for  teachers,  and  oftentimes  one  fails  at  the  last 
minute  through  sickness,  and  I  should  n't  won- 
der if  Polly  found  a  good  place  yet  in  that  way." 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  get 
along,"  moaned  Polly's  father,  to  whom  his 
daughter's  trouble  seemed  only  a  small  part  of 
the  general  misfortunes.  "  Here 's  winter  com- 
ing, and  I  'm  likely  to  be  laid  up  any  day  with 
my  rheumatics,  and  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
afford  even  to  take  a  boy  to  work  for  his  board 
and  clothes.  I  've  got  a  few  trees  I  can  cut, 
and  one  cow  I  can  sell;  but  there  are  the 
taxes  to  pay,  and  the  minister,  and  money  to 
lay  out  on  fences,  come  spring.  The  farm  ran 
behind  last  year,  too." 

Polly  rose  impatiently  and  took  down  a 
lamp  from  the  high  chimney-shelf,  knocking 
down  the  match-box  as  she  did  so,  which  was, 
after  all,  a  good  deal  of  relief.  She  put  the 
light  on  the  floor  while  she  picked  up  the 
scattered  matches,  and  her  mother  took  a  goo^ 
look  at  her,  and  was  somehow  made  to  feel 
stronger  at  the  sight  of  Polly's  face. 


FARMER  FINCH.  61 

"  I  guess  we  'd  all  better  have  some  supper," 
said  the  girl.  "  I  never  should  feel  so  dis- 
couraged if  I  was  n't  hungry.  And  now  I  'm 
going  to  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  'm 
going  to  put  right  to  and  go  to  work  out-doors 
and  in,  and  I  'm  going  to  help  father  same  as 
if  I  were  a  boy.  I  believe  I  should  like  farm- 
ing now  twice  as  well  as  teaching,  and  make  a 
good  deal  more  money  at  it.  I  have  n't  a  gift 
for  teaching,  and  I  know  it,  but  I  don't  mean 
that  what  I  learned  shall  be  thrown  away. 
Now  we  've  got  hay  for  the  stock,  plenty  of  it, 
and  we  've  got  potatoes  and  apples  and  turnips 
and  cider  in  the  cellar,  and  a  good  pig  to  kill, 
and  so  there 's  no  danger  that  we  shall  starve. 
I  'm  just  as  strong  as  I  can  be,  and  I  am  going 
right  to  work,  at  any  rate  until  I  get  a  school 
with  a  first-rate  salary  that  '11  be  worth  more 
than  my  help  will  here." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  dcn't  want  you  to  throw  away 
such  a  good  education  as  you  Ve  had,  for  us," 
said  Mrs.  Finch,  sorrowfully.  "  I  want  you  to 
be  somebody,  Polly,  and  take  your  right  place 
in  the  world." 

But  Polly  answered  stoutly  that  she  was  n't 
sure  it  was  a  good  education  until  she  saw 


52  FARMER  FINCH. 

whether  it  was  any  use  to  her.  There  were 
too  many  second-rate  teachers  already,  and  she 
had  n't  any  reason  to  suppose  she  would  be  a 
first-rate  one.  She  believed  that  people  had 
better  learn  to  do  the  things  they  were  sure  to 
have  to  do.  She  would  rather  be  a  boy,  and 
farm  it,  than  teach  any  school  she  ever  saw, 
and  for  this  year,  at  any  rate,  she  was  going  to 
see  whether  her  book-learning  was  n't  going  to 
be  some  help  at  home.  "  I  did  the  best  I  could 
at  school,"  she  said,  "  and  it  was  easy  enough 
to  get  my  lessons,  but  now  I  Ve  come  against 
a  dead-wall.  I  don't  see  but  you  both  need 
me,  and  I  'm  well  and  strong  as  anybody  alive. 
I  'd  a  good  deal  rather  work  at  home  a  while 
than  be  penned  up  with  a  lot  of  children,  and 
none  of  us  more  than  half  know  what  we  're 
about.  I  want  to  think  a  good  deal  more 
about  teaching  school  before  I  begin  to  try  in 
earnest." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  help  your 
mother,"  said  John  Finch,  disconsolately, 
"  and  we  '11  manage  to  get  along  somehow." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  father,"  responded  Polly, 
in  really  cheerful  tones,  as  if  she  assumed  her 
new  situation  formally  at  that  moment.  She 


FARMER  FINCH.  53 

went  slowly  down  cellar  with  the  lamp,  leav- 
ing her  parents  in  darkness  ;  but  by  this  time 
the  tea-kettle  had  begun  to  sing,  and  a  great 
glow  of  coals  showed  through  the  front  slide 
of  the  stove. 

Mr.  Finch  lifted  himself  out  of  his  chair, 
and  stumbled  about  to  get  the  lantern  and 
light  it,  and  then  went  out  to  feed  the  cattle. 
He  still  looked  chilled,  and  as  if  all  happiness 
had  forsaken  him.  It  was  some  little  time  be- 
fore he  returned,  and  the  table  was  already  set, 
and  supper  was  nearly  cooked  and  ready  to  be 
eaten.  Polly  had  made  a  pot  of  coffee,  and 
drank  her  first  cup  with  great  satisfaction,  and 
almost  without  taking  breath ;  but  her  father 
tasted  his  and  did  not  seem  to  care  for  it,  eat- 
ing only  a  little  food  with  evident  effort. 

"  Now  I  thought  you  would  relish  a  good 
cup  of  coffee,"  said  his  wife,  with  much  con- 
cern; but  the  man  answered  sadly  that  he 
could  n't  eat ;  he  felt  all  broken  down. 

"  It  was  a  perishing  day  for  you  to  take  that 
long  ride.  It  's  the  bleakest  road  round  here, 
that  marsh  road  is,  and  you  hardly  ate  a 
mouthful  of  breakfast.  I  wish  you  had  got 
something  to  warm  you  up  before  you  started 


54  FARMER  FINCH. 

to  come  back,"  said  his  wife,  looking  at  him 
anxiously.  "  I  believe  I  '11  get  you  something 
now,"  and  she  went  to  find  a  treasured  bottle, 
long  stored  away  to  be  used  in  case  of  chill  or 
illness,  for  John  Finch  was  a  temperate  man. 

"  I  declare  I  forgot  to  milk,"  he  said,  hope- 
lessly. "  I  don't  know  's  such  a  thing  ever 
happened  to  me  before.  I  thought  there  was 
something  else  when  I  was  out  to  the  barn, 
and  I  sat  down  on  the  grin'-stone  frame  and 
tried  to  think  what  it  was,  but  I  could  n't." 

"  I  '11  milk,"  said  Polly  j  and  she  whisked 
up-stairs  and  replaced  her  best  dress,  which  had 
been  already  turned  up  and  well  aproned,  by 
a  worn  old  frock  which  she  had  used  on  days 
of  cleaning,  or  washing,  or  other  rough  work, 
when  she  had  lent  a  hand  to  help  her  mother. 
It  was  nothing  new  for  her,  a  farmer's 
daughter  born  and  bred,  to  undertake  this 
work,  but  she  made  a  distinct  change  of  di- 
rection that  night,  and  as  she  sat  milking  in 
the  cold  barn  by  the  dull  light  of  the  lantern 
a  certain  pleasure  stole  over  her.  She  was 
not  without  her  ambitions,  but  they  had  never 
flown  with  free  wings  up  an  imaginary  career 
of  school-teaching.  "  I  do  believe  mother  and 


FARMER  FINCH.  55 

1  can  earn  money  enough  to  take  care  of  us," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  and  next  spring  I  ?m  going 
to  set  out  as  much  land  as  father  will  let  me 
have  with  strawberries."  Her  thoughts  never 
were  busier  than  that  night.  The  two  cows 
looked  round  at  her  with  surprise,  and  seemed 
to  value  her  good-natured  words  and  hurried 
pats  as  she  left  them.  She  disturbed  a  sleepy 
row  of  hens  perched  on  the  rail  of  the  hay 
cart,  and  thought  it  was  a  pity  there  was  not  a 
better  place  for  them,  and  that  they  should  be 
straying  about.  "  I  'm  going  to  read  up  some 
of  the  old  numbers  of  the  Agriculturist"  she 
said,  "and  see  what  I  can  do  about  having 
eggs  to  sell."  It  more  was  evident  that  Polly 
was  fired  with  a  great  enthusiasm,  but  she  re- 
membered suddenly  another  new  great  interest 
which  was  a  secret  as  yet  even  from  her  mother. 
This  remembrance  gave  her  a  little  uneasiness. 
It  was  still  early  when  the  supper  table  had 
been  cleared  away,  and  the  milk  strained  and 
set  aside  in  the  pantry.  John  Finch  had 
drawn  his  chair  close  to  the  stove,  and  when 
his  wife  and  daughter  sat  down  also,  ready 
to  begin  the  evening  which  showed  so  little 
promise  of  hilarity,  they  saw  that  he  was 
crvinfr. 


56  FARMER  FINCH. 

"Why,  father!"  Polly  exclaimed,  half 
frightened,  for  this  was  something  she  did  not 
remember  ever  seeing  since  she  was  a  child. 
And  his  wife  said  nothing,  but  came  and  stood 
beside  him  and  watched  him  as  if  the  vague 
sense  of  coming  trouble  which  had  haunted  her 
all  day  was  going  to  explain  itself  by  some 
terrible  crisis. 

"  I  'm  all  broken  down,"  the  poor  man 
sobbed.  "  I  used  to  think  I  was  going  to  be 
somebody,  and  get  ahead,  and  nothing  has 
gone  as  I  wanted  it  to.  I  'm  in  debt  more 
than  you  think,  and  I  don't  know  which  way 
to  look.  The  farm  don't  yield  me  as  it  used 
to,  and  I  don't  grudge  what  we  've  done  for 
the  girl,  but  it 's  been  all  we  could  carry,  and 
here  she 's  failed  of  getting  a  place  to  teach. 
Everything  seems  to  go  against  us." 

This  was  really  most  sad  and  death-like  ;  it 
truly  seemed  as  if  the  wheels  of  existence  had 
stopped ;  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  fol- 
low this  unhappy  day  but  disgrace  and  de- 
spair. But  Polly  was  the  first  to  speak,  and 
her  cheeks  grew  very  red :  "  Father,  I  don't 
think  you  have  any  right  to  speak  so.  If  we 
ean't  make  our  living  one  way,  we  will  another. 


FARMER  FINCH  57 

Losing  that  money  in  the  bank  is  n't  the  worst 
thing  that  could  have  happened  to  us,  and  now 
I  am  going  to  take  hold  with  you  right  here 
at  home,  as  I  said  before  supper.  You  think 
there  is  n't  much  that  a  woman  can  do,  but 
we  '11  see.  How  much  do  you  owe  ?  " 

But  John  Finch  shook  his  head  sadly,  and 
at  first  refused  to  tell.  "  It  would  have  been 
nothing  if  I  had  had  my  bonds  to  help  me 
out,"  he  finally  confessed,  "  but  now  I  don't 
see  how  I  ever  can  pay  three  hundred  dollars." 

In  a  little  while  he  rose  wearily,  though  it 
was  only  a  little  past  six,  and  said  that  he 
must  go  to  bed,  and  his  wife  followed  him  to 
his  room  as  if  he  were  a  child.  This  break- 
ing down  was  truly  a  most  painful  and  fright- 
ful thing,  and  Polly  was  not  surprised  to  be 
wakened  from  her  uneasy  sleep  a  few  hours 
later,  for  she  had  worried  and  lain  awake  in  a 
way  that  rarely  happened,  fearing  that  her  fa- 
ther would  be  ill,  and  wondering  what  plans  it 
would  be  best  to  make  for  his  assistance  in  the 
coming  year.  She  believed  that  they  could  do 
much  better  with  the  farm,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  be  son  and  daughter  both. 

Later  Mrs.  Finch  called  her,  hurriedly  com- 


58  FARMER  FINCH. 

ing  half-way  up  the  staircase  Tvith  a  light 
"  Your  father  is  sick,"  she  said,  anxiously. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  more  than  a  chill, 
but  he  's  in  great  pain,  and  I  wish  we  could 
get  the  doctor.  Can't  you  wrap  up  warm  and 
go  over  to  Minton's  and  see  if  they  can't  send 
somebody  ?  " 

"  There 's  nobody  there,"  said  Polly  ;  "  the 
boys  are  both  away.  I  '11  go  myself,  and  get 
back  before  you  begin  to  miss  me  ;  "  and  she 
was  already  dressing  as  fast  as  she  could.  In 
that  quiet  neighborhood  she  had  no  thought  of 
fear ;  it  was  not  like  Polly  to  be  afraid,  at  any 
rate  ;  and  after  a  few  words  to  her  father,  and 
making  a  bright  fire  in  the  little  fire-place  of  the 
bed-room,  she  put  on  her  warm  old  hood  and 
mittens,  and  her  mother's  great  plaid  shawl, 
and  scurried  away  up  the  road.  It  was  a  mile 
and  a  half  to  the  doctor's  house,  and  with  every 
step  she  grew  more  eager  to  reach  it.  The 
clouds  had  broken  away  somewhat,  and  the 
stars'  bright  rays  came  darting  like  glistening 
needles  at  one's  eyes,  so  keen  and  piercing  they 
were.  The  wind  had  gone  down,  and  a  heavy 
coldness  had  fallen  upon  the  earth,  as  if  the 
air,  like  water,  had  frozen  and  become  denser, 


FARMER  FINCH.  59 

It  seemed  another  world  altogether,  and  the 
old  dog,  that  had  left  his  snug  corner  behind 
the  kitchen  stove  to  follow  Polly,  kept  close  at 
her  side,  as  if  he  lacked  his  usual  courage.  On 
the  ridges  the  cedar-trees  stood  up  thinner  and 
blacker  than  ever ;  the  northern  lights  were 
making  the  sky  white  and  strange  with  their 
mysterious  light.  Polly  ran  and  walked  by 
turns,  feeling  warmed  and  quickened  by  the 
exercise.  She  was  not  averse  to  the  long  walk 
at  that  time  of  night ;  she  had  a  comfortable 
sense  of  the  strong  young  life  that  was  hers  to 
use  and  command. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  other  foot- 
steps besides  her  own  on  the  frozen  ground, 
and  stopped,  feeling  for  the  first  time  anything 
like  fear.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  hide,  but 
the  road  was  wide  and  unsheltered,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  on.  She  thought 
next  that  it  might  be  somebocty  whom  she  could 
send  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  in  another  min- 
ute she  heard  a  familiar  whistle,  and  called 
out,  not  without  relief,  "  Is  that  you,  Jerry  ?  " 

The  figure  stopped,  and  answered  nothing, 
and  Polly  hurried  nearer,  and  spoke  again. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  sends  you  out  this 


60  FARMER  FINCH, 

time  o'  night  ?  "  asked  the  young  man,  almost 
impatiently ;  and  Polly  in  her  turn  became  a 
little  angry  with  him,  she  could  not  have  told 
why. 

"  I  'm  not  out  for  pleasure,"  she  answered, 
with  some  spirit.  "  Father  is  taken  very  sick  ; 
we  are  afraid  it  is  pneumonia  ;  and  I  'in  going 
for  the  doctor.  There  was  nobody  to  send." 

"  I  was  coming  up  from  Portsmouth  to-day," 
said  the  young  man,  "  and  I  lost  the  last  train, 
so  I  came  on  a  freight  train  with  some  fellows 
I  know,  and  I  thought  I  'd  foot  it  over  from 
the  depot.  We  were  delayed  a  good  while  or 
it  would  n't  have  been  so  late.  There  was  a 
car  off  the  track  at  Beverly." 

He  had  turned,  and  was  walking  beside 
Polly,  who  wondered  that  he  had  not  sense 
enough  to  offer  to  call  the  doctor  for  her.  She 
did  not  like  his  gallantry,  and  was  in  no  mood 
for  friendliness.  She  noticed  that  he  had  been 
drinking,  but  he  seemed  perfectly  sober ;  it 
was  between  Jerry  Minton  and  herself  that 
something  almost  like  love-making  had  showed 
itself  not  long  before,  but  somehow  any  ten- 
derness she  had  suspected  herself  of  cherishing 
for  him  had  suddenly  vanished  from  her  heart 
and  mind. 


FARMER  FINCH.  61 

"  I  was  all  knocked  of  a  heap  in  Salem  this 
morning  to  hear  that  the  bank  had  failed.  Our 
folks  will  lose  something,  but  I  suppose  it  '11 
about  ruin  your  father.  Seems  to  affect  him  a 
good  deal,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  It  has  n't  quite  ruined  us,"  said  Polly, 
angrily,  and  walked  faster  and  faster. 

"  I  've  been  turning  it  over  in  my  mind  to- 
day a  good  deal,"  said  Jerry.  "  I  hope  you 
will  call  on  me  for  anything  I  can  do,  'specially 
now  your  father  's  going  to  be  laid  up." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Polly,  stiffly ;  and  pres- 
ently she  stopped  in  the  road,  and  turned  and 
looked  at  him  in  a  sharp  and  not  very  admir- 
ing way. 

"  You  might  as  well  go  home,"  she  told  him, 
not  unkindly.  "  I  've  got  to  the  village  now, 
and  I  shall  ride  home  with  the  doctor  ;  there  's 
no  need  for  you  to  come  back  out  of  your 
way."  And  Jerry,  after  a  feeble  remonstrance, 
obeyed. 

The  doctor  was  used  to  being  summoned  at 
such  hours,  and  when  he  found  it  was  Polly 
Finch  he  dressed  hurriedly,  and  came  down, 
brimful  of  kindness  and  sympathy,  to  let  her 


62  FARMER  FINCH. 

He  listened  almost  in  silence  to  what  Polly 
had  to  say  of  the  case,  and  then,  taking  a 
bottle  here  and  there  from  his  stores  in  the  lit- 
tle room  that  served  him  as  his  office,  he  fast- 
ened his  great-coat,  and  pulled  down  the  fur 
cap  that  had  been  a  valiant  helmet  against  the 
blows  of  many  winter  storms,  and  they  went 
out  together  to  the  stable.  The  doctor  was  an 
elderly  man  and  lame,  and  he  was  delighted 
with  the  brisk  way  in  which  his  young  com- 
panion stepped  forward  and  helped  him.  The 
lantern  that  hung  in  the  warm  little  stable  was 
not  very  bright,  but  she  quickly  found  her  way 
about,  and  the  horse  was  soon  harnessed.  She 
found  that  the  harness  needed  tightening,  the 
doctor  having  used  it  that  day  for  another  car- 
riage, and  as  he  saw  her  try  it  and  rebuckle  it, 
he  felt  a  warm  glow  of  admiration,  and  said  to 
himself  that  not  one  woman  in  a  hundred 
would  have  done  such  a  thing.  They  wrapped 
themselves  in  the  heavy  blankets  and  buffalo- 
skins,  and  set  forth,  the  doctor  saying  that 
they  could  not  go  much  faster  than  a  walk. 

He  was  still  a  little  sleepy,  and  Polly  did 
not  have  much  to  say  at  first,  except  in  answer 
to  one  or  two  questions  which  he  asked  about 


FARMER  FINCH.  63 

her  father's  condition ;  but  at  last  she  told  him 
of  her  own  accord  of  the  troubles  that  had 
fallen  upon  them  that  day.  It  already  seemed 
a  week  to  her  since  the  morning ;  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  grown  years  older  instead  of  hours. 

"  Your  father  has  a  bad  trouble  about  the 
heart,"  said  the  doctor,  hesitatingly.  "  I  think 
it  is  just  as  well  you  should  know  it,  and  if  this 
is  pneumonia,  it  may  go  very  hard  with  him. 
And  if  he  pulls  through,  as  I  hope  he  will  if 
we  catch  him  in  time,  you  must  see  to  it  that 
he  is  very  careful  all  the  rest  of  the  winter,  and 
does  n't  expose  himself  in  bad  weather.  He 
must  n't  go  into  the  woods  chopping,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort." 

u  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me," 
said  Polly,  bravely.  "  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  stay  right  at  home.  I  was  in  hopes  to 
get  a  school,  but  I  could  n't  do  it,  and  now  I 
can  see  it  was  meant  that  I  should  n't,  for 
mother  could  n't  get  along  without  me  if  fa 
ther  's  going  to  be  sick.  I  keep  wishing  I  had 
been  a  boy,"  —  and  she  gave  a  shaky  little 
laugh  that  had  a  very  sad  tone  in  it,  —  "  for  it 
seems  as  if  father  needed  my  help  on  the  farm 
more  than  mother  does  in  the  house,  and  I 


64  FARMER  FINCH. 

don't  see  why  he  should  n't  have  it,"  she  con* 
fessed,  filled  with  the  courage  of  her  new  opin- 
ion. "  I  believe  that  it  is  the  only  thing  for 
me  to  do.  I  always  had  a  great  knack  at  mak- 
ing things  grow,  and  I  never  should  be  so 
happy  anywhere  as  working  out-doors  and 
handling  a  piece  of  land.  I  'd  rather  work 
with  a  hoe  than  a  ferule  any  day,"  and  she 
gave  the  queer  little  laugh  again.  Nobody 
would  have  suspected  she  found  it  so  hard  id 
bear  the  doctor's  bad  news. 

"  But  what  is  it  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  asked 
the  doctor,  in  a  most  respectful  tone,  though 
he  was  inwardly  much  amused. 

Polly  hesitated.  "  I  have  been  thinking  that 
we  might  raise  a  good  many  more  early  vegeta- 
bles, and  ever  so  much  more  poultry.  Some  of 
our  land  is  so  sheltered  that  it  is  very  early, 
you  know,  and  it 's  first-rate  light  loam.  We 
always  get  peas  and  potatoes  and  beans  long 
before  the  Mintons  and  the  rest  of  the  people 
down  our  way,  and  there 's  no  trouble  about  a 
market." 

"  But  you  '11  have  to  hire  help,"  the  doctor 
suggested. 

And  Polly  answered  that  she  had  thought 


FARMER  FINCH.  65 

of  that,  but  she  knew  she  could  manage  some- 
how. "  It 's  a  new  thing,  you  see,  doctor,"  she 
said,  much  encouraged  by  his  evident  interest, 
"  but  I  mean  to  work  my  way  through  it. 
Father  has  sold  wood  and  sold  hay,  and  if  we 
had  too  much  butter  or  too  many  eggs,  and 
more  early  potatoes  than  we  wanted,  he  would 
sell  those;  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  farm  was 
there  only  to  feed  us,  and  now  I  believe  I  can 
make  it  feed  a  good  many  other  people  be- 
sides ;  and  we  must  get  money  somehow. 
People  let  girls  younger  than  I  get  married, 
and  nobody  thinks  it  is  any  risk  to  let  them 
try  housekeeping.  I  'm  going  to  try  farm- 
keeping." 

The  old  doctor  laughed.  "  You  've  got  a 
wise  head  for  such  a  young  one,"  he  said, 
"  and  now  I  '11  help  you  every  way  I  can.  I  'm 
not  a  rich  man,  but  I  'm  comfortably  off  for  a 
country  doctor,  and  I  've  got  more  money  put 
away  than  I  am  likely  to  use ;  so,  if  you  fall 
short  at  any  time,  you  just  come  and  tell  me, 
and  nobody  shall  know  anything  about  it,  and 
you  can  take  your  own  time  to  pay  it  back.  I 
know  more  about  doctoring  than  I  do  about 
farming,  or  I  'd  give  you  plenty  of  advice. 
But  you  go  ahead,  Polly." 


68  FARMER  FINCH. 

Polly  nestled  down  into  the  buffaloes,  feel- 
ing already  that  she  had  become  a  business 
woman.  The  old  wagon  bumped  and  shook 
as  they  went  along,  and  in  the  dim  light  Polly 
caught  sight  of  the  barberry  bush  —  only  a 
darker  shadow  on  the  high  bank  at  the  side  of 
the  road — and  she  thought  of  it  affectionately 
as  if  it  were  a  friend.  Young  Minton,  whom 
they  overtook  at  last,  called  out  loudly  some 
good  wish  that  they  might  find  Mr.  Finch  bet- 
ter, and  the  doctor  asked  sharply  who  he  was, 
as  they  drove  by.  Polly  told  him,  not  without 
a  feeling  of  embarrassment,  which  was  very 
provoking  to  her. 

"  I  must  say  I  never  liked  that  tribe,"  said 
the  doctor,  hastily.  "I  always  hate  to  have 
them  send  for  me." 

When  they  reached  the  farm,  Polly  urged 
the  doctor  to  go  into  the  house  at  once.  There 
was  a  bright  light  in  the  kitchen  and  in  the 
bedroom  that  opened  out  of  it,  and  the  girl 
was  almost  afraid  to  go  in  after  she  had  led 
the  horse  into  the  barn  and  covered  him  with 
the  blanket.  The  old  sorrel  was  within  easy 
reach  of  the  overhanging  edge  of  the  haymow, 
and  she  left  him  munching  comfortably.  As 


FARMER  FINCH.  67 

she  opened  the  inner  door  of  the  kitchen  she 
heard  her  father's  voice,  weak  and  sharp,  and 
the  doctor  speaking  in  assuring  tones  with 
hearty  strength,  but  the  contrast  of  the  two 
voices  sounded  very  sad  to  Polly.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  had  been  gone  a  great  while, 
and  she  feared  to  look  at  her  father  lest  he 
might  have  changed  sadly.  As  she  came  to 
the  bedroom  door,  the  sight  of  her  rosy-cheeked 
and  eager,  sorry  face  seemed  to  please  him,  and 
his  own  face  brightened. 

"  YOU  're  a  good  girl,  Polly,"  said  he.  "  I  'm 
sorry  you  had  such  a  bad  time."  He  looked 
very  ill  already,  and  Polly  could  not  say  any- 
thing in  answer.  She  rebuilt  the  fire,  and 
then  went  to  stand  by  the  table,  as  she  used 
when  she  was  a  little  child,  to  see  the  doctor 
take  out  his  doses  of  medicine. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  Jerry  Minton's 
mother  came  knocking  at  the  door,  which  Polly 
had  locked  after  the  doctor  had  gone  away  in 
the  night.  She  had  pushed  the  bolt  with  un- 
wonted care,  as  if  she  wished  to  bar  the  en- 
trance to  any  further  trouble  that  might  be  ly- 
ing in  wait  for  them  outside.  Mrs.  Minton 
was  ready  with  her  expressions  of  sympathy, 


68  FARMER  FINCH. 

but  somehow  Polly  wished  she  would  go  away. 
She  took  a  look  at  the  sick  man,  who  was 
sleeping  after  the  suffering  and  wakefulness 
of  the  night,  and  shook  her  head  ominously, 
for  which  Polly  could  have  struck  her.  She 
was  an  unpleasant,  croaking  sort  of  woman, 
and  carried  in  her  whole  manner  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  altered  fortunes  of  the  Finches; 
and  she  even  condoled  with  Polly  on  her  dis- 
appointment about  the  school. 

"  Jerry  spoke  about  meeting  you  going  for 
the  doctor,"  she  said  in  conclusion.  "  I  told 
him  I  did  n't  know  what  you  would  think 
about  catching  him  out  so  late  at  night ;  but 
he  was  to  Portsmouth,  and  mistook  the  time 
of  the  train.  I  've  been  joking  him  for  some 
time  past.  I  've  about  made  up  my  mind 
there  's  some  attraction  to  Portsmouth.  He 
was  terrible  took  with  that  Miss  Hallett  who 
was  stopping  to  the  minister's  in  the  summer." 

This  was  more  than  Polly  could  bear,  for  it 
was  only  a  short  time  since  Mrs.  Minton  had 
been  paying  her  great  attention,  and  wishing 
that  she  and  Jerry  would  make  a  match  of  it, 
as  the  farms  joined,  and  the  farm-work  was 
growing  too  heavy  for  her  as  she  became  older. 


FARMER  FINCH.  69 

"  If  you  mean  Mary  Hallett,  she  was  mar- 
ried in  September  to  a  young  man  in  Boston, 
partner  in  a  commission  firm,"  said  Polly ;  and 
Mrs.  Minton,  for  that  time  at  any  rate,  was 
routed  horse  and  foot. 

"  I  hate  that  woman  !  "  she  said,  angrily,  as 
she  shut  the  door,  not  very  gently,  after  her. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  illness  that  followed,  and 
the  younger  and  the  elder  Mary  Finch  were 
both  tired  and  worn  out  before  it  ended  in  a 
slow  convalescence  that  in  its  dangers  and 
troubles  was  almost  as  bad  as  the  illness  itself. 
The  doctor  was  most  kind  and  helpful  in  other 
ways  than  with  his  medicines.  It  was  a  most 
cheerful  and  kindly  presence,  and  more  than 
once  Polly  drove  back  to  the  village  with  him, 
or  went  with  her  own  horse  to  bring  him  to 
the  farm,  and  they  became  fast  friends.  The 
girl  knew  without  being  told  that  it  would  be 
a  long  time  before  her  father  would  grow 
strong  again,  if  that  time  ever  came  at  all. 
They  had  got  on  very  well  without  help,  she 
and  her  mother.  Some  of  the  neighbors  had 
offered  their  services  in-doors  and  out,  but 
these  latter  offers  were  only  occasionally  ac- 
cepted. 


70  FARMER  FINCH. 

The  oxen  had  been  hired  by  a  man  who  was 
hauling  salt  hay  to  town,  and  Polly  had  taken 
care  of  the  horse  and  the  two  cows.  She  had 
split  the  firewood  and  brought  it  in,  and  had 
done  what  little  rough  work  had  to  be  attended 
to  in  these  weeks  in  spite  of  her  mother's  un- 
willingness. To  tell  the  truth,  she  enjoyed  it 
after  the  heat  and  stillness  of  the  house,  and 
when  she  could  take  the  time  to  run  out  for 
a  little  while,  it  was  always  to  take  a  look  at 
some  part  of  the  farm,  and  though  many  of 
her  projects  proved  to  be  castles  in  the  air,  she 
found  almost  her  only  pleasure  in  these  sad 
winter  days  in  building  them  and  thinking 
them  over. 

Before  her  father's  illness  she  would  have 
turned  most  naturally  to  Jerry  Minton  for 
help  and  sympathy,  for  he  had  made  himself 
very  kind  and  pleasant  to  her  then.  Polly  had 
been  thought  a  good  match,  since  she  was  an 
only  child,  and  it  was  everywhere  known  that 
John  Finch  and  his  wife  had  both  inherited 
money.  Besides,  it  gave  the  more  dignity  to 
her  position  that  she  had  been  so  long  away 
at  school,  and  such  good  accounts  of  her  stand- 
ing there  had  reached  her  native  place;  and 


FARMER  FINCH.  71 

Polly  was  uncommonly  good-looking,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  which  Jerry  Minton's  eyes 
had  been  quick  to  notice.  Though  it  was 
known  at  once  through  the  town  what  a  plight 
the  Finches'  affairs  were  in,  Jerry  had  come 
at  first,  apparently  unconscious  of  his  mother's 
withdrawal  of  his  attentions,  with  great  show 
of  sympathy  and  friendliness,  to  offer  to  watch 
with  the  sick  man  by  night,  or  to  be  of  any  use 
by  day,  and  he  had  been  much  mortified  and 
surprised  at  Polly's  unmistakable  repulse.  Her 
quick  instinct  had  detected  an  assumption  of 
condescension  and  patronage  on  his  part  as 
well  as  his  mother's,  and  the  growing  fondness 
which  she  had  felt  earlier  in  that  season  turned 
to  a  dislike  that  grew  much  faster  in  the  win- 
ter days.  Her  mother  noticed  the  change  in 
her  manner,  and  one  night  as  they  sat  together 
in  the  kitchen  Mrs.  Finch  whispered  a  gentle 
warning  to  her  daughter.  "  I  thought  one 
time  that  there  might  be  something  between 
you  and  Jerry,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  you  won't 
let  your  duty  to  your  father  and  me  stand  in 
the  way  of  your  settling  yourself  comfortably. 
I  should  n't  like  to  think  we  were  going  to 
leave  you  alone.  A  woman  's  better  to  have 
a  home  of  her  own." 


72  FARMER  FINCH. 

Polly  turned  so  red  that  her  mother  conld 
see  the  color  even  in  the  dim  light  by  which 
they  watched. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  said  the  girl, 
"  This  is  my  home,  and  I  would  n't  marry 
Jerry  Minton  if  he  were  the  President." 

That  was  a  black  and  snowless  winter  until 
late  in  January.  There,  near  the  sea,  such 
seasons  are  not  so  uncommon  as  they  are  far- 
ther inland ;  but  the  desolation  of  the  land- 
scape struck  Polly  Finch  all  the  more  forcibly 
since  it  was  answered  to  by  the  anxiety  and 
trouble  that  had  fallen  into  her  life.  She  had 
not  been  at  home  in  midwinter  for  several 
years  before,  and  in  those  earlier  days  she  had 
never  noticed  the  outward  world  as  she  had 
learned  to  do  as  she  grew  older.  The  farm 
was  a  pleasant  group  of  fields  in  summer,  ly- 
ing among  the  low  hills  that  kept  away  both 
the  winds  from  the  sea  and  the  still  keener 
and  bitterer  northwest  wind.  Yet  the  plain, 
warm,  story-and-a-half  house,  with  its  square 
front  yard,  with  lilac  and  rose  bushes,  and  the 
open  side  yard  with  its  close  green  turf,  and 
the  barns  and  outbuildings  beyond,  was  only  a 
little  way  from  the  marshes.  From  Polly's 


FARMER  FINCH.  73 

own  upper  window  there  was  an  outlook  that 
way  over  a  low  slope  of  one  of  the  pasture 
hills,  and  sometimes  when  she  felt  tired  and 
dreary,  and  looked  out  there,  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  the  half-dozen  black  cedars  were  stand- 
ing there  watching  the  house,  and  waiting  for 
a  still  greater  sorrow  and  evil  fortune  to  go  in 
at  the  door.  Our  heroine's  life  was  not  a  lit- 
tle lonely,  and  it  would  have  been  much  worse 
if  she  had  not  been  so  busy  and  so  full  of  care. 
She  missed  the  girls  who  had  been  her  com- 
panions at  school,  and  from  having  her  duties 
marked  out  for  her  by  her  teachers,  and  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  follow  set  tasks,  and  do  certain 
things  at  certain  hours,  it  was  a  great  change 
to  being  her  own  mistress,  charged  with  not 
only  her  own  but  other  people's  welfare. 

The  women  from  the  few  neighboring  houses 
who  came  in  to  pay  friendly  visits,  or  to  help 
with  the  housework,  said  very  good  things 
about  Polly  afterward.  It  had  been  expected 
that  she  would  put  on  at  least  a  few  fine  airs, 
but  she  was  so  dutiful,  and  worked  so  hard  and 
so  sensibly,  and  with  such  manifest  willing- 
ness and  interest,  that  no  one  could  help  prais- 
ing her.  A  very  old  neighbor,  who  was  still 


74  FARMER  FINCH. 

mindful  of  the  proprieties  of  life,  though  she 
had  become  too  feeble  to  be  of  much  practical 
use  in  the  event  of  a  friend's  illness,  came  one 
afternoon  to  pay  a  visit.  She  was  terribly 
fatigued  after  the  walk  which  had  been  so  long 
for  her,  and  Polly  waited  upon  her  kindly,  and 
brought  her  some  refreshments,  all  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  her  busiest  afternoons.  Poor 
old  Mrs.  Wall !  she  made  her  little  call  upon 
the  sick  man,  who  was  almost  too  weak  to  even 
show  his  gratitude  that  she  had  made  so  great 
an  effort  to  keep  up  the  friendly  custom,  and 
after  saying  sadly  that  she  used  to  be  a  great 
hand  to  tend  the  sick,  but  her  day  was  over, 
she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  when  Polly  drew 
the  big  rocking-chair  to  the  warmest  corner, 
and  entertained  her  to  the  best  of  her  power. 
The,  old  woman's  eye  fell  upon  a  great  pile  of 
newspapers. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  a  great  hand  to  read, 
after  all  your  schooling  ?  "  and  Polly  answered 
that  she  did  like  to  read  very  much,  and 
added  :  "  Those  are  old  numbers  of  the  Agri- 
culturist. Father  has  taken  it  a  good  many 
years,  and  I  've  taken  to  studying  farming." 

Mrs.  Wall  noticed  the  little  blush  that  fot 


FARMER  FINCH.  75 

lowed  this  announcement,  and  did  not  question 
its  seriousness  and  truthfulness. 

"  I  'm  going  to  help  father  carry  on  the 
farm,"  said  Polly,  suddenly,  fearing  that  her 
guest  might  think  she  meant  to  marry,  and 
only  take  the  in-door  part  of  the  farm's  busi- 
ness. 

"  Well,  two  heads  are  better  than  one,"  said 
the  old  lady,  after  a  minute's  reflection ;  "  only 
an  old  horse  and  a  young  one  don't  always 
pull  well  together.  But  I  can  see,  if  my  eyes 
are  n't  what  they  used  to  be,  that  you  are  a 
good  smart  girl,  with  some  snap  to  ye.  I  guess 
you  've  got  power  enough  to  turn  'most  any  kind 
of  a  mill.  There  was  my  own  first  cousin  Se- 
rena Allen,  her  husband  was  killed  in  the  last 
war,  and  she  was  left  with  two  children  when 
she  was  n't  a  great  deal  older  than  you  be,  and 
she  run  the  farm,  and  lived  well,  and  laid  up  a 
handsome  property.  She  was  some  years  older 
than  I,  but  she  has  n't  been  dead  a  great  many 
years.  She  'd  plow  a  piece  of  ground  as  well 
as  a  man.  They  used  to  call  her  Farmer  Al- 
len. She  was  as  nice  a  woman  as  I  ever  knew." 

Polly  laughed  more  heartily  than  she  had 
{or  a  good  while,  and  it  did  her  father  good  to 


76  FARMER  FINCH. 

hear  her ;  but  later,  when  the  visitor  had  gone, 
in  spite  of  Polly's  offer  to  drive  her  home  a 
little  later  when  another  neighbor  returned 
the  horse,  our  friend  watched  her  go  away  with 
feeble  steps,  a  bent,  decrepit  figure,  almost 
worn  out  with  spending  so  many  years  in  a 
world  of  hard  work.  She  might  have  stood 
for  a  picture  of  old  age,  and  Polly  felt  it  as 
she  stood  at  the  window.  It  had  never  come 
home  to  her  thoroughly  before,  the  inevitable- 
ness  of  growing  old,  and  of  the  limitation  of 
this  present  life ;  how  soon  the  body  loses  its 
power,  and  the  strength  of  the  mind  wanes 
with  it.  All  that  old  Mrs.  Wall  could  do  in 
this  world  was  done,  and  her  account  was  vir- 
tually closed.  "  Here  I  am  just  starting  out," 
said  unlucky  John  Finch's  only  daughter.  "  I 
did  think  I  might  be  going  to  have  a  great 
career  sometimes  when  I  was  at  school,  and 
here  I  am  settling  down  just  like  everybody 
else,  and  only  one  wave,  after  all,  instead  of 
being  a  whole  tide.  And  it  is  n't  going  to  be 
a  great  while  before  I  have  as  hard  work  to 
get  up  that  little  hill  as  old  Mrs.  Wall.  But 
I  'm  going  to  beat  even  her  cousin  Serena 
Allen.  I  am  going  to  be  renowned  as  Farmer 
Finch." 


FARMER  FINCH.  77 

Polly  found  it  very  hard  to  wait  until  it 
should  be  time  to  make  her  garden  and  plant 
it,  and  every  day  made  her  more  impatient, 
while  she  plied  her  father  with  questions,  and 
asked  his  opinion  so  many  times  as  to  the 
merits  of  different  crops,  that  he  was  tired  of 
the  subject  altogether.  Through  many  seasons 
he  had  tried  these  same  experiments,  with  not 
very  great  success,  and  he  could  not  imagine 
the  keen  interest  and  enthusiasm  with  which 
Polly's  soul  was  fired.  She  had  never  known 
such  a  late  spring,  and  the  scurries  of  snow 
in  March  and  early  April  filled  her  with  dis- 
may, as  if  each  had  blighted  and  frost-bitten 
her  whole  harvest.  The  day  the  garden  was 
plowed  was  warm  and  spring-like,  and  John 
Finch  crept  out  slowly,  with  his  stick  held  fast 
in  a  pale  and  withered-looking  hand,  to  see  the 
work  go  on.  He  groaned  when  he  saw  what  a 
great  piece  of  ground  was  marked  out  by  the 
long  first  furrows,  and  felt  a  new  sense  of 
his  defeated  and  weak  condition.  He  began 
to  protest  angrily  at  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
daughter's  imprudent  nonsense,  but  the  thought 
struck  him  that  Polly  might  know  what  she 
was  about  better  than  he  did,  and  he  fell  back 


78  FARMER  FINCH. 

contentedly  upon  his  confidence  in  her,  and 
leaned  on  the  fence  in  the  sun,  feeling  very 
grateful  that  somebody  else  had  taken  things 
in  charge,  he  was  so  dull  and  unequal  to  mak- 
ing any  effort.  "Polly's  got  power,"  he  told 
himself  several  times  that  day,  with  great 
pride  and  satisfaction. 

As  the  summer  went  on,  and  early  potatoes 
from  the  Finch  farm  were  first  in  the  mar- 
ket, though  everybody  who  saw  them  planted 
had  believed  they  would  freeze  and  never 
grow,  and  the  other  crops  had  sometimes 
failed,  but  for  the  most  part  flourished  fa- 
mously, Polly  began  to  attract  a  good  deal 
of  attention,  for  she  manifested  uncommon 
shrewdness  and  business  talent,  and  her  enter- 
prise, held  in  check  by  her  father's  experience, 
wrought  wonders  in  the  garden  and  fields. 
Over  and  over  John  Finch  said,  admiringly, 
to  his  wife,  "  How  Polly  does  take  hold  of 
things !  "  and  while  he  was  quick  to  see  the 
objections  to  her  plans,  and  had  failed  in  his 
own  life  affairs  because  he  was  afraid  to  take 
risk,  he  was  easily  persuaded  into  thinking  it 
was  worth  while  to  do  the  old  work  in  new 
tfays.  It  was  lucky  that  Polly  had  a  grand 


FARMER  FINCH.  79 

capital  of  strength  to  live  upon,  for  she  gave 
herself  little  rest  all  summer  long  ;  she  was  up 
early  every  morning  and  hard  at  work,  and 
only  wished  that  the  days  were  twice  as  long. 
She  minded  neither  heat  nor  rain,  and  having 
seen  her  way  clear  to  employ  a  strong  country 
boy  whom  the  doctor  had  met  in  his  rounds  and 
recommended,  she  took  care  of  the  great  gar- 
den with  his  help ;  and  when  she  had  occasion 
to  do  battle  with  the  market-men  who  came 
foraging  that  way,  she  came  off  victorious  in 
the  matter  of  fair  prices. 

Now  that  so  much  has  been  said  about  the 
days  and  the  thoughts  that  led  to  the  carrying 
out  of  so  bold  a  scheme,  it  is  a  pity  there  is  not 
time  enough  to  give  a  history  of  the  struggles 
and  successes  of  that  first  summer.  There  never 
was  a  young  man  just  "  out  of  his  time  "  and  re- 
joicing in  his  freedom,  who  went  to  work  more 
diligently  and  eagerly  than  Polly  Finch,  and 
few  have  set  their  wits  at  work  on  a  New 
England  farm  half  so  intelligently.  She 
managed  a  great  flock  of  poultry  with  admir- 
able skill.  Her  geese  walked  in  a  stately  pro- 
cession all  that  summer  to  and  from  their 
pleasure-ground  at  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  and 


80  FARMER  FINCH. 

not  a  hen  that  stole  her  nest  but  was  tracked 
to  earth  like  a  fox  and  cooped  triumphantly. 
She  tinkered  the  rickety  bee-hives  that  stood 
in  a  long  and  unremunerative  row  in  the  gar- 
den until  the  bees  became  good  housekeepers 
and  excellent  providers  for  very  shame.  She 
gathered  more  than  one  of  the  swarms  herself 
without  a  sting,  and  by  infinite  diligence  she 
waged  war  successfully  on  the  currant  worms, 
with  the  result  that  she  had  a  great  crop  of 
currants  when  everybody  else's  came  to  grief. 
She  wondered  why  the  butter  that  she  and  her 
mother  made  brought  only  a  third-rate  price, 
and  bought  a  pound  of  the  very  best  for  a 
pattern,  and  afterward  was  sparing  of  salt, 
and  careful  to  churn  while  the  cream  was 
sweet  and  fresh.  She  sold  the  oxen,  and 
bought  another  horse  instead  for  the  lighter 
team,  which  would  serve  her  purpose  better, 
and  every  morning,  after  the  crops  began  to 
yield,  a  wagon-load  of  something  or  other 
went  from  the  farm  to  market. 

She  was  as  happy  as  a  queen,  and  as  well 
and  strong  as  girls  ought  to  be ;  and  though 
some  people  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  thought 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  work  on  the  farm 


FARMER  FINCH.  81 

like  a  man,  they  were  forced  to  like  her  all  the 
better  when  they  saw  her  ;  and  when  she  came 
into  church  on  Sunday,  nobody  could  have  said 
that  she  had  become  unwomanly  and  rough. 
Her  hands  grew  to  need  a  larger  pair  of  gloves 
than  she  was  used  to  wearing,  but  that  did  not 
trouble  her ;  and  she  liked  a  story-book,  or  a 
book  with  more  lessons  in  it  still,  better  than 
ever  she  had.  Two  girls  who  had  been  her 
best  friends  at  school  came  in  the  course  of  the 
summer  to  visit  her,  and  were  asked  out  into 
the  garden,  after  the  early  breakfast,  because 
she  must  weed  the  beets,  and  after  sitting  still 
for  a  while  on  a  garden  bench,  they  began  to 
help  her,  and  both  got  headaches  ;  but  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  having  caught  the  spirit  and 
something  of  the  enjoyment  of  her  life,  they 
would  have  been  glad  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
summer  with  her.  There  is  something  delight- 
ful in  keeping  so  close  to  growing  things,  and 
one  gets  a  great  sympathy  with  the  life  that  is 
in  nature,  with  the  flourishing  of  some  plants 
and  the  hindered  life  of  others,  with  the  fruit- 
fulness  and  the  ripening  and  the  gathering-in 
that  may  be  watched  an  tended  and  counted 
on  one  small  piece  of  ground. 


82  FARMER  FINCH. 

Everything  seemed  to  grow  that  she  touched, 
and  it  was  as  if  the  strength  of  her  own  nature 
was  like  a  brook  that  made  everything  green 
where  it  went.  She  had  her  failures  and  disap- 
pointments, and  she  reaped  little  in  some  places 
where  she  had  looked  for  great  harvests.  The 
hay  was  partly  spoiled  by  some  wet  weather, 
but  there  was  still  enough  for  their  own  stock, 
and  they  sold  the  poultry  for  double  the  usual 
money.  The  old  doctor  was  Polly's  firm  friend, 
and  he  grew  as  fond  of  her  as  if  she  were  his 
own  daughter,  and  could  hardly  force  himself 
to  take  the  money  she  brought  back  in  pay- 
ment of  a  loan  she  had  been  forced  to  ask  of 
him,  unknown  even  to  her  mother,  once  when 
things  went  hard  against  her  enterprise  late  in 
the  spring. 

John  Finch  gained  strength  slowly  all  that 
summer,  but  his  heart  grew  lighter  day  by  day, 
and  he  and  Polly  made  enthusiastic  plans  in 
the  summer  evenings  for  increased  sheep-rais- 
ing on  their  wide-spread  pasture-land,  and  for 
a  great  poultry-yard,  which  was  to  bring  them 
not  a  little  wealth.  And  on  Thanksgiving-day, 
when  our  farmer  counted  up  her  gains  finally, 
she  was  out  of  debt,  and  more  than  satisfied 


FARMER  FINCH.  83 

and  contented.  She  said  over  and  over  again 
that  she  never  should  be  happier  than  she  had 
been  that  summer.  But  more  than  one  short- 
sighted towns-woman  wondered  that  she  should 
make  nothing  of  herself  when  she  had  had  a 
good  education,  and  many  spoke  as  if  Polly 
would  have  been  more  admirable  and  respect- 
able if  she  had  succeeded  in  getting  the  little 
town  school  teachership.  She  said  herself  that 
she  was  thankful  for  everything  she  had 
learned  at  school  that  had  helped  her  about 
her  farming  and  gardening,  but  she  was  not 
meant  for  a  teacher.  "Unless  folks  take  a 
lesson  from  your  example,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  've  seen  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  in 
my  day,  and  I  have  found  that  people  who 
look  at  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  they 
wish  them  to  be,  are  the  ones  who  succeed. 
And  when  you  see  that  a  thing  ought  to  be 
done,  either  do  it  yourself  or  be  sure  you  get  it 
done.  '  Here  I  've  no  school  to  teach,  and  fa- 
ther has  lost  his  money  and  his  health.  We  Ve 
got  the  farm ;  but  I  'm  only  a  girl.  The  land 
won't  support  us  if  we  let  it  on  the  halves. 
That  's  what  you  might  have  said,  and  sat 
down  and  cried.  But  I  liked  the  way  you  un* 


84  FARMER  FINCH. 

dertook  things.  The  farm  was  going  to  be 
worked  and  made  to  pay;  you  were  going 
to  do  it;  and  you  did  do  it.  I  saw  you 
mending  up  a  bit  of  fence  here  and  there,  and 
I  saw  you  busy  when  other  folks  were  lazy. 
You  're  a  good  girl,  Polly  Finch,  and  I  wish 
there  were  more  like  you,"  the  doctor  con- 
cluded. "You  take  hold  of  life  in  the  right 
way.  There  's  plenty  of  luck  for  you  in  the 
world.  And  now  I  'm  going  to  let  you  have 
some  capital  this  next  spring,  at  a  fair  inter- 
est, or  none,  and  you  can  put  yourself  in  a 
way  to  make  something  handsome." 

This  is  only  a  story  of  a  girl  whom  fate  and 
fortune  seemed  to  baffle ;  a  glimpse  of  the  way 
in  which  she  made  the  best  of  things,  and  con- 
quered circumstances,  instead  of  being  what 
cowards  call  the  victim  of  circumstances. 
Whether  she  will  live  and  die  as  Farmer 
Finch,  nobody  can  say,  but  it  is  not  very 
likely.  One  thing  is  certain  :  her  own  charac- 
ter had  made  as  good  a  summer's  growth  as 
anything  on  her  farm,  and  she  was  ashamed 
to  remember  that  she  had  ever  thought  seri- 
ously of  loving  Jerry  Minton.  It  will  be  a 
much  better  man  than  he  whom  she  falls  in 


FARMER  FINCH.  85 

love  with  next.  And  whatever  may  fall  to  her 
lot  later,  she  will  always  be  glad  to  think  that 
in  that  sad  emergency  she  had  been  able  to 
save  her  father  and  mother  from  anxiety  and 
despair,  and  that  she  had  turned  so  eagerly  and 
readily  to  the  work  that  was  useful  and  possi- 
ble when  her  own  plans  had  proved  impossible, 
and  her  father's  strength  had  failed. 

All  that  is  left  to  be  said  of  this  chapter  of 
her  story  is  that  one  day  when  she  was  walking 
to  the  village  on  one  of  her  rare  and  happy 
holidays  she  discovered  that,  in  widening  a  bit 
of  the  highway,  her  friend  the  little  barberry 
bush  was  to  be  uprooted  and  killed.  And  she 
took  a  spade  that  was  lying  idle,  the  workmen 
having  gone  down  the  road  a  short  distance, 
and  dug  carefully  around  the  roots,  and  put 
her  treasure  in  a  safe  place  by  the  wall. 
When  she  returned,  later  in  the  day,  she 
shouldered  it,  thorns  and  all,  and  carried  it 
home,  and  planted  it  in  an  excellent  situation 
by  the  orchard  fence  ;  and  there  it  still  grows 
and  flourishes.  I  suppose  she  will  say  to  her- 
self as  long  as  she  lives,  when  things  look  ugly 
and  troublesome,  "  I  '11  see  if  the  other  side  is 
any  better,  like  my  barberry  bush." 


MARSH  KOSEMAEY. 
I. 

ONE  hot  afternoon  in  August,  a  single  mov- 
ing figure  might  have  been  seen  following  a 
straight  road  that  crossed  the  salt  marshes  of 
Walpole.  Everybody  else  had  either  stayed 
at  home  or  crept  into  such  shade  as  could  be 
found  near  at  hand.  The  thermometer  marked 
at  least  ninety  degrees.  There  was  hardly 
a  fishing  -  boat  to  be  seen  on  the  glistening 
sea,  only  far  away  on  the  hazy  horizon  two 
or  three  coasting  schooners  looked  like  ghostly 
flying  Dutchmen,  becalmed  for  once  and  mo- 
tionless. 

Ashore,  the  flaring  light  of  the  sun  brought 
out  the  fine,  clear  colors  of  the  level  landscape. 
The  marsh  grasses  were  a  more  vivid  green 
than  usual,  the  brown  tops  of  those  that  were 
beginning  to  go  to  seed  looked  almost  red,  and 
the  soil  at  the  edges  of  the  tide  inlets  seemed 
to  be  melting  into  a  black,  pitchy  substanca 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  87 

like  the  dark  pigments  on  a  painter's  palette. 
Where  the  land  was  higher  the  hot  air  flick- 
ered above  it  dizzily.  This  was  not  an  after- 
noon that  one  would  naturally  choose  for  a  long 
walk,  yet  Mr.  Jerry  Lane  stepped  briskly  for- 
ward, and  appeared  to  have  more  than  usual 
energy.  His  big  boots  trod  down  the  soft  car- 
pet of  pussy-clover  that  bordered  the  dusty, 
whitish  road.  He  struck  at  the  stationary  pro- 
cession of  thistles  with  a  little  stick  as  he  went 
by.  Flight  after  flight  of  yellow  butterflies 
fluttered  up  as  he  passed,  and  then  settled 
down  again  to  their  thistle  flowers,  while  on  the 
shiny  cambric  back  of  Jerry's  Sunday  waist- 
coat basked  at  least  eight  large  green-headed 
flies  in  complete  security. 

It  was  difficult  to  decide  why  the  Sunday 
waistcoat  should  have  been  put  on  that  Satur- 
day afternoon.  Jerry  had  not  thought  it  im- 
portant to  wear  his  best  boots  or  best  trousers, 
and  had  left  his  coat  at  home  altogether.  He 
smiled  as  he  walked  along,  and  once  when  he 
took  off  his  hat,  as  a  light  breeze  came  that 
way,  he  waved  it  triumphantly  before  he  put 
it  on  again.  Evidently  this  was  no  common 
errand  that  led  him  due  west,  and  made  him 


88  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

forget  the  hot  weather,  and  caused  him  to 
shade  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  he  looked  ea- 
gerly at  a  clump  of  trees  and  the  chimney  of  a 
small  house  a  little  way  beyond  the  boundary  of 
the  marshes,  where  the  higher  ground  began. 

Miss  Ann  Floyd  sat  by  her  favorite  window, 
sewing,  twitching  her  thread  less  decidedly 
than  usual,  and  casting  a  wistful  glance  now 
and  then  down  the  road  or  at  the  bees  in 
her  gay  little  garden  outside.  There  was  a 
grim  expression  overshadowing  her  firmly-set, 
angular  face,  and  the  frown  that  always  ap- 
peared on  her  forehead  when  she  sewed  or  read 
the  newspaper  was  deeper  and  straighter  than 
usual.  She  did  not  look  as  if  she  were  con- 
scious of  the  heat,  though  she  had  dressed  her- 
self in  an  old-fashioned  skirt  of  sprigged  lawn 
and  a  loose  jacket  of  thin  white  dimity  with 
out-of-date  flowing  sleeves.  Her  sandy  hair 
was  smoothly  brushed;  one  lock  betrayed  a 
slight  crinkle  at  its  edge,  but  it  owed  nothing 
to  any  encouragement  of  Nancy  Floyd's.  A 
hard,  honest,  kindly  face  this  was,  of  a  woman 
whom  everybody  trusted,  who  might  be  ex* 
pected  to  give  of  whatever  she  had  to  give, 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  89 

good  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over. 
She  was  a  lonely  soul ;  she  had  no  near  rela- 
tives in  the  world.  It  seemed  always  as  if 
nature  had  been  mistaken  in  not  planting  her 
somewhere  in  a  large  and  busy  household. 

The  little  square  room,  kitchen  in  winter 
and  sitting-room  in  summer,  was  as  clean  and 
bare  and  thrifty  as  one  would  expect  the  dwell- 
ing-place of  such  a  woman  to  be.  She  sat  in  a 
straight-backed,  splint-bottomed  kitchen  chair, 
and  always  put  back  her  spool  with  a  click  on 
the  very  same  spot  on  the  window-sill.  You 
would  think  she  had  done  with  youth  and  with 
love  affairs,  yet  you  might  as  well  expect  the 
ancient  cherry-tree  in  the  corner  of  her  yard 
to  cease  adventuring  its  white  blossoms  when 
the  May  sun  shone !  No  woman  in  Walpole 
had  more  bravely  and  patiently  borne  the  bur- 
den of  loneliness  and  lack  of  love.  Even  now 
her  outward  behavior  gave  no  hint  of  the  new 
excitement  and  delight  that  filled  her  heart. 

"  Land  sakes  alive ! "  she  says  to  herself 
presently,  "  there  comes  Jerry  Lane.  I  expect, 
if  he  sees  me  settin'  to  the  winder,  he  '11  come 
in  an'  dawdle  round  till  supper  time !  "  But 


90  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

good  Nancy  Floyd  smooths  her  hair  hastily  as 
she  rises  and  drops  her  work,  and  steps  back 
toward  the  middle  of  the  room,  watching  the 
gate  anxiously  all  the  time.  Now,  Jerry,  with 
a  crestfallen  look  at  the  vacant  window,  makes 
believe  that  he  is  going  by,  and  takes  a  loiter- 
ing step  or  two  onward,  and  then  stops  short ; 
with  a  somewhat  sheepish  smile  he  leans  over 
the  neat  picket  fence  and  examines  the  blue 
and  white  and  pink  larkspur  that  covers  most 
of  the  space  in  the  little  garden.  He  takes  off 
his  hat  again  to  cool  his  forehead,  and  replaces 
it,  without  a  grand  gesture  this  time,  and  looks 
again  at  the  window  hopefully. 

There  is  a  pause.  The  woman  knows  that 
the  man  is  sure  she  is  there ;  a  little  blush  col- 
ors her  thin  cheeks  as  she  comes  boldly  to  the 
wide-open  front  door. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  kind  of  weath- 
er ? "  asks  Jerry  Lane,  complacently,  as  he 
leans  over  the  fence,  and  surrounds  himself 
with  an  air  of  self-sacrifice. 

"  I  call  it  hot,"  responds  the  Juliet  from  her 
balcony,  with  deliberate  assurance,  "  but  the 
corn  needs  sun,  everybody  says.  I  should  n't 
have  wanted  to  toil  up  from  the  shore  under 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  91 

such  a  glare,  if  I  had  been  you.  Better  come 
in  and  set  a  while,  and  cool  off,"  she  added, 
without  any  apparent  enthusiasm.  Jerry  was 
sure  to  come,  any  way.  She  would  rather 
make  the  suggestion  than  have  him. 

Mr.  Lane  sauntered  in,  and  seated  himself 
opposite  his  hostess,  beside  the  other  small  win- 
dow, and  watched  her  admiringly  as  she  took 
up  her  sewing  and  worked  at  it  with  great 
spirit  and  purpose.  He  clasped  his  hands  to- 
gether and  leaned  forward  a  little.  The  shaded 
kitchen  was  very  comfortable,  after  the  glaring 
light  outside,  and  the  clean  orderliness  of  the 
few  chairs  and  the  braided  rugs  and  the  table 
under  the  clock,  with  some  larkspur  and  aspar- 
agus in  a  china  vase  for  decoration,  seemed  to 
please  him  unexpectedly.  "  Now  just  see  what 
ways  you  women  folks  have  of  fixing  things  up 
smart !  "  he  ventured  gallantly. 

Nancy's  countenance  did  not  forbid  further 
compliment ;  she  looked  at  the  flowers  herself, 
quickly,  and  explained  that  she  had  gathered 
them  a  while  ago  to  send  to  the  minister's 
sister,  who  kept  house  for  him.  "  I  saw  him 
going  by,  and  expected  he  'd  be  back  this  same 
road.  Mis'  Elton  's  be'n  havin'  another  o'  her 


92  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

dyin'  spells  this  noon,  and  the  deacon  went  by 
after  him  hot  foot.  I  'd  souse  her  well  with 
stone-cold  water.  She  never  sent  for  me  to  set 
up  with  her;  she  knows  better.  Poor  man, 
't  was  likely  he  was  right  into  the  middle  of  to- 
morrow's sermon.  'T  ain't  considerate  of  the 
deacon,  and  when  he  knows  he  's  got  a  fool  for 
a  wife,  he  need  n't  go  round  persuading  other 
folks  she  's  so  suffering  as  she  makes  out. 
They  ain't  got  no  larkspur  this  year  to  the 
parsonage,  and  I  was  going  to  let  the  minister 
take  this  over  to  Amandy ;  but  I  see  his  wagon 
over  on  the  other  road,  going  towards  the  vil- 
lage, about  an  hour  after  he  went  by  here." 

It  seemed  to  be  a  relief  to  tell  somebody 
all  these  things  after  such  a  season  of  forced 
repression,  and  Jerry  listened  with  gratifying 
interest.  "  How  you  do  see  through  folks  !  " 
he  exclaimed  in  a  mild  voice.  Jerry  could 
be  very  soft  spoken  if  he  thought  best. 
"  Mis'  Elton  's  a  die-away  lookin'  creatur'.  I 
heard  of  her  saying  last  Sunday,  comin'  out  o' 
meetin',  that  she  made  an  effort  to  git  there 
once  more,  but  she  expected  't  would  be  the 
last  time.  Looks  as  if  she  eat  well,  don't 
she  ?  "  he  concluded,  in  a  meditative  tone. 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  93 

"  Eat !  "  exclaimed  the  hostess,  with  snap- 
ping eyes.  "  There  ain't  no  woman  in  town, 
sick  or  well,  can  lay  aside  the  food  that  she 
does.  'T  ain't  to  the  table  afore  folks,  but  she 
goes  seeking  round  in  the  cupboards  half  a 
dozen  times  a  day.  An'  I  've  heard  her  re- 
mark 't  was  the  last  time  she  ever  expected  to 
visit  the  sanctuary  as  much  as  a  dozen  times 
within  five  years." 

"  Some  places  I  've  sailed  to  they  'd  have  hit 
her  over  the  head  with  a  club  long  ago,"  said 
Jerry,  with  an  utter  lack  of  sympathy  that  was 
startling.  "Well,  I  must  be  gettin'  back 
again.  Talkin'  of  eatin'  makes  us  think  o' 
supper  time.  Must  be  past  five,  ain't  it  ?  I 
thought  I  'd  just  step  up  to  see  if  there  wa'n't 
anything  I  could  lend  a  hand  about,  this  hot 
day." 

Sensible  Ann  Floyd  folded  her  hands  over 
her  sewing,  as  it  lay  in  her  lap,  and  looked 
straight  before  her  without  seeing  the  pleading 
face  of  the  guest.  This  moment  was  a  great 
crisis  in  her  life.  She  was  conscious  of  it,  and 
knew  well  enough  that  upon  her  next  words 
would  depend  the  course  of  future  events. 
The  man  who  waited  to  hear  what  she  had 


94  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

to  say  was  indeed  many  years  younger  than 
she,  was  shiftless  and  vacillating.  He  had 
drifted  to  Walpole  from  nobody  knew  where, 
and  possessed  many  qualities  which  she  had 
openly  rebuked  and  despised  in  other  men. 
True  enough,  he  was  good-looking,  but  that 
did  not  atone  for  the  lacks  of  his  character 
and  reputation.  Yet  she  knew  herself  to  be 
the  better  man  of  the  two,  and  since  she  had 
surmounted  many  obstacles  already  she  was 
confident  that,  with  a  push  here  and  a  pull 
there  to  steady  him,  she  could  keep  him  in 
good  trim.  The  winters  were  so  long  and 
lonely  ;  her  life  was  in  many  ways  hungry  and 
desolate  in  spite  of  its  thrift  and  conformity. 
She  had  laughed  scornfully  when  he  stopped, 
one  day  in  the  spring,  and  offered  to  help  her 
weed  her  garden  ;  she  had  even  joked  with  one 
of  the  neighbors  about  it.  Jerry  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  friendly  and  pleasant 
ever  since.  His  ease-loving  careless  nature 
was  like  a  comfortable  cushion  for  hers,  with 
its  angles,  its  melancholy  anticipations  and  self- 
questionings.  But  Jerry  liked  her,  and  if  she 
liked  him  and  married  him,  and  took  him 
home,  it  was  nobody's  business ;  and  in  that 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  95 

moment  of  surrender  to  Jerry's  cause  she  ar- 
rayed herself  at  his  right  hand  against  the  rest 
of  the  world,  ready  for  warfare  with  any  and 
all  of  its  opinions. 

She  was  suddenly  aware  of  the  sunburnt 
face  and  light,  curling  hair  of  her  undeclared 
lover,  at  the  other  end  of  the  painted  table 
with  its  folded  leaf.  She  smiled  at  him  va- 
cantly across  the  larkspur ;  then  she  gave  a 
little  start,  and  was  afraid  that  her  thoughts 
had  wandered  longer  than  was  seemly.  The 
kitchen  clock  was  ticking  faster  than  usual,  as 
if  it  were  trying  to  attract  attention. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  be  getting  home,"  repeated 
the  visitor  ruefully,  and  rose  from  his  chair, 
but  hesitated  again  at  an  unfamiliar  expres- 
sion upon  his  companion's  face. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  've  got  anything  extra 
for  supper,  but  you  stop,"  she  said,  "  an'  take 
what  there  is.  I  would  n't  go  back  across 
them  marshes  right  in  this  heat." 

Jerry  Lane  had  a  lively  sense  of  humor, 
and  a  queer  feeling  of  merriment  stole  over 
him  now,  as  he  watched  the  mistress  of  the 
house.  She  had  risen,  too ;  she  looked  so 
simple  and  so  frankly  sentimental,  there  was 


96  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

such  an  incongruous  coyness  added  to  her 
usually  straightforward,  angular  appearance, 
that  his  instinctive  laughter  nearly  got  the 
better  of  him,  and  might  have  lost  him  the 
prize  for  which  he  had  been  waiting  these 
many  months.  But  Jerry  behaved  like  a  man : 
he  stepped  forward  and  kissed  Ann  Floyd ;  he 
held  her  fast  with  one  arm  as  he  stood  beside 
her,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  She  was 
a  dear  good  woman.  She  had  a  fresh  young 
heart,  in  spite  of  the  straight  wrinkle  in  her 
forehead  and  her  work-worn  hands.  She  had 
waited  all  her  days  for  this  joy  of  having  a 
lover. 

II. 

Even  Mrs.  Elton  revived  for  a  day  or  two 
under  the  tonic  of  such  a  piece  of  news.  That 
was  what  Jerry  Lane  had  hung  round  for  all 
summer,  everybody  knew  at  last.  Now  he 
would  strike  work  and  live  at  his  ease,  the 
men  grumbled  to  each  other ;  but  all  the 
women  of  Walpole  deplored  most  the  weak- 
ness and  foolishness  of  the  elderly  bride.  Ann 
Floyd  was  comfortably  off,  and  had  something 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  97 

laid  by  for  a  rainy  day ;  she  would  have  done 
vastly  better  to  deny  herself  such  an  expen- 
sive and  utterly  worthless  luxury  as  the  kind 
of  husband  Jerry  Lane  would  make.  He  had 
idled  away  his  life.  He  earned  a  little  money 
now  and  then  in  seafaring  pursuits,  but  was 
too  lazy,  in  the  shore  parlance,  to  tend  lobster- 
pots.  What  was  energetic  Ann  Floyd  going 
to  do  with  him  ?  She  was  always  at  work, 
always  equal  to  emergencies,  and  entirely  op- 
posed to  dullness  and  idleness  and  even  pla- 
cidity. She  liked  people  who  had  some  snap 
to  them,  she  often  avowed  scornfully,  and  now 
she  had  chosen  for  a  husband  the  laziest  man 
in  Walpole.  "  Dear  sakes,"  one  woman  said 
to  another,  as  they  heard  the  news,  "  there 's 
no  fool  like  an  old  fool !  " 

The  days  went  quickly  by,  while  Miss  Ann 
made  her  plain  wedding  clothes.  If  people 
expected  her  to  put  on  airs  of  youth  they  were 
disappointed.  Her  wedding  bonnet  was  the 
same  sort  of  bonnet  she  had  worn  for  a  dozen 
years,  and  one  disappointed  critic  deplored  the 
fact  that  she  had  spruced  up  so  little,  and  kept 
on  dressing  old  enough  to  look  like  Jerry 
Lane's  mother.  As  her  acquaintances  met 


98  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

her  they  looked  at  her  with  close  scrutiny, 
expecting  to  see  some  outward  trace  of  such 
a  silly,  uncharacteristic  departure  from  good 
sense  and  discretion.  But  Miss  Floyd,  while 
she  was  still  Miss  Floyd,  displayed  no  silliness 
and  behaved  with  dignity,  while  on  the  Sun- 
day after  a  quiet  marriage  at  the  parsonage 
she  and  Jerry  Lane  walked  up  the  side  aisle  to 
their  pew,  the  picture  of  middle-aged  sobriety 
and  respectability.  Their  fellow  parishoners, 
having  recovered  from  their  first  astonishment 
and  amusement,  settled  down  to  the  belief  that 
the  newly  married  pair  understood  their  own 
business  best,  and  that  if  anybody  could  make 
the  best  of  Jerry  and  get  any  work  out  of  him, 
it  was  his  capable  wife. 

"  And  if  she  undertakes  to  drive  him  too 
hard  he  can  slip  off  to  sea,  and  they  '11  be  rid 
of  each  other,"  commented  one  of  Jerry's 
'longshore  companions,  as  if  it  were  only  rea- 
sonable that  some  refuge  should  be  afforded 
to  those  who  make  mistakes  in  matrimony. 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  mistake  at 
first,  or  for  a  good  many  months  afterward. 
The  husband  liked  the  comfort  that  came  from 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  99 

such  good  housekeeping,  and  enjoyed  a  deep 
sense  of  having  made  a  good  anchorage  in  a 
well-sheltered  harbor,  after  many  years  of 
thriftless  improvidence  and  drifting  to  and 
fro.  There  were  some  hindrances  to  perfect 
happiness :  he  had  to  forego  long  seasons  of 
gossip  with  his  particular  friends,  and  the  out- 
door work  which  was  expected  of  him,  though 
by  no  means  heavy  for  a  person  of  his  strength, 
fettered  his  freedom  not  a  little.  To  chop 
wood,  and  take  care  of  a  cow,  and  bring  a  pail 
of  water  now  and  then,  did  not  weary  him  so 
much  as  it  made  him  practically  understand 
the  truth  of  weakly  Sister  Elton's  remark  that 
life  was  a  constant  chore.  And  when  poor 
Jerry,  for  lack  of  other  interest,  fancied  that 
his  health  was  giving  way  mysteriously,  and 
brought  home  a  bottle  of  strong  liquor  to  be 
used  in  case  of  sickness,  and  placed  it  conve- 
niently in  the  shed,  Mrs.  Lane  locked  it  up  in 
the  small  chimney  cupboard  where  she  kept 
her  camphor  bottie  and  her  opodeldoc  and  the 
other  family  medicines.  She  was  not  harsh 
with  her  husband.  She  cherished  him  ten- 
derly, and  worked  diligently  at  her  trade  of 
tailoress,  singing  her  hymns  gayly  in  summer 


100  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

weather  ;  for  she  never  had  been  so  happy  as 
now,  when  there  was  somebody  to  please  be- 
side herself,  to  cook  for  and  sew  for,  and  to 
live  with  and  love.  But  Jerry  complained 
more  and  more  in  his  inmost  heart  that  his 
wife  expected  too  much  of  him.  Presently  he 
resumed  an  old  habit  of  resorting  to  the  least 
respected  of  the  two  country  stores  of  that 
neighborhood,  and  sat  in  the  row  of  loafers  on 
the  outer  steps.  "  Sakes  alive,"  said  a  shrewd 
observer  one  day,  "  the  fools  set  there  and  talk 
and  talk  about  what  they  went  through  when 
they  follered  the  sea,  till  when  the  women- 
folks comes  tradin'  they  are  obleeged  to  climb 
right  over  'em." 

But  things  grew  worse  and  worse,  until  one 
day  Jerry  Lane  came  home  a  little  late  to  din- 
ner, and  found  his  wife  unusually  grim-faced 
and  impatient.  He  took  his  seat  with  an  ami- 
able smile,  and  showed  in  every  way  his  de- 
termination not  to  lose  his  temper  because 
somebody  else  had.  It  was  one  of  the  days 
when  he  looked  almost  boyish  and  entirely  ir- 
responsible. His  hair  was  handsome  and  curly 
from  the  dampness  of  the  east  wind,  and  his 
wife  was  forced  to  remember  how,  in  the  days 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  101 

of  their  courtship,  she  used  to  wish  that  she 
could  pull  one  of  the  curling  locks  straight,  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  fly  back.  She  felt 
old  and  tired,  and  was  hurt  in  her  very  soul  by 
the  contrast  between  herself  and  her  husband. 
"  No  wonder  I  am  aging,  having  to  lug  every- 
thing on  my  shoulders,"  she  thought.  .Jerry 
had  forgotten  to  do  whatever  she  had  asked 
him  for  a  day  or  two.  He  had  started  out 
that  morning  to  go  lobstering,  but  he  had  re- 
turned from  the  direction  of  the  village. 

"Nancy,"  he  said  pleasantly,  after  he  had 
begun  his  dinner,  a  silent  and  solitary  meal, 
while  his  wife  stitched  busily  by  the  window, 
and  refused  to  look  at  him,  —  "  Nancy,  I  've 
been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  a  project." 

"  I  hope  it  ain't  going  to  cost  so  much  and 
bring  in  so  little  as  your  other  notions  have, 
then,"  she  responded,  quickly;  though  some- 
how a  memory  of  the  hot  day  when  Jerry  came 
and  stood  outside  the  fence,  and  kissed  her 
when  it  was  settled  he  should  stay  to  supper, 
—  a  memory  of  that  day  would  keep  fading 
and  brightening  in  her  mind. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerry,  humbly,  "  I  ain't  done 
right,  Nancy.  I  ain't  done  my  part  for  OUT 


102  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

livin'.  I  Ve  let  it  sag  right  on  to  you,  most 
ever  since  we  was  married.  There  was  that 
spell  when  I  was  kind  of  weakly,  and  had  a 
pain  acrost  me.  I  tell  you  what  it  is :  I  never 
was  good  for  nothin'  ashore,  but  now  I  Ve  got 
my  strength  up  I  'm  going  to  show  ye  what  I 
can  do.  I  'm  promised  to  ship  with  Cap'n 
Low's  brother,  Skipper  Nathan,  that  sails 
out  o'  Eastport  in  the  coasting  trade,  lumber 
and  so  on.  I  shall  get  good  wages,  and  you 
shall  keep  the  whole  on  't  'cept  what  I  need 
for  clothes." 

"  You  need  n't  be  so  plaintive,"  said  Ann, 
in  a  sharp  voice.  "  You  can  go  if  you  want 
to.  I  have  always  been  able  to  take  care  of 
myself,  but  when  it  comes  to  maintainin'  two, 
't  ain't  so  easy.  When  be  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  I  expected  you  would  be  sorry,"  mourned 
Jerry,  his  face  falling  at  this  outbreak. 
"  Nancy,  you  need  n't  be  so  quick.  'T  ain't  as 
if  I  had  n't  always  set  everything  by  ye,  if  I 
be  wuthless." 

Nancy's  eyes  flashed  fire  as  she  turned  hastily 
away.  Hardly  knowing  where  she  went,  she 
passed  through  the  open  doorway,  and  crossed 
the  clean  green  turf  of  the  narrow  side  yard 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  103 

and  leaned  over  the  garden  fence.  The  young 
cabbages  and  cucumbers  were  nearly  buried 
in  weeds,  and  the  currant  bushes  were  fast  be- 
ing turned  into  skeletons  by  the  ravaging 
worms.  Jerry  had  forgotten  to  sprinkle  them 
with  hellebore,  after  all,  though  she  had  put 
the  watering-pot  into  his  very  hand  the  even- 
ing before.  She  did  not  like  to  have  the  whole 
town  laugh  at  her  for  hiring  a  man  to  do  his 
work  ;  she  was  busy  from  early  morning  until 
late  night,  but  she  could  not  do  everything 
herself.  She  had  been  a  fool  to  marry  this 
man,  she  told  herself  at  last,  and  a  sullen  dis- 
content and  rage  that  had  been  of  slow  but 
certain  growth  made  her  long  to  free  herself 
from  this  unprofitable  hindrance  for  a  time,  at 
any  rate.  Go  to  sea  ?  Yes,  that  was  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen.  Perhaps  when  he 
had  worked  hard  a  while  on  schooner  fare,  he 
would  come  home  and  be  good  for  something  ! 
Jerry  finished  his  dinner  in  the  course  of 
time,  and  then  sought  his  wife.  It  was  not 
like  her  to  go  away  in  this  silent  fashion.  Of 
late  her  gift  of  speech  had  been  proved  suffi- 
ciently formidable,  and  yet  she  had  never 
looked  so  resolutely  angry  as  to-day. 


104  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

"  Nancy,"  he  began,  —  "  Nancy,  girl !  I 
ain't  goin'  off  to  leave  you,  if  your  heart 's  set 
against  it.  I  '11  spudge  up  and  take  right 
holt." 

But  the  wife  turned  slowly  from  the  fence 
and  faced  him.  Her  eyes  looked  as  if  she  had 
been  crying.  "  You  need  n't  stay  on  my  ac- 
count," she  said.  "  I  '11  go  right  to  work  an' 
fit  ye  out.  I  'm  sick  of  your  meechin'  talk, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hear  no  more  of  it.  Ef  1 
was  a  man  "  — 

Jerry  Lane  looked  crestfallen  for  a  minute 
or  two ;  but  when  his  stern  partner  in  life  had 
disappeared  within  the  house,  he  slunk  away 
among  the  apple-trees  of  the  little  orchard,  and 
sat  down  on  the  grass  in  a  shady  spot.  It  was 
getting  to  be  warm  weather,  but  he  would  go 
round  and  hoe  the  old  girl's  garden  stuff  by 
and  by.  There  would  be  something  goin'  on 
aboard  the  schooner,  and  with  delicious  antici- 
pation of  future  pleasure  this  delinquent  Jerry 
struck  his  knee  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were 
clapping  a  crony  on  the  shoulder.  He  also 
winked  several  times  at  the  same  fancied  com- 
panion. Then,  with  a  comfortable  chuckle,  he 
laid  himself  down,  and  pulled  his  old  hat  over 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  105 

his  eyes,  and  went  to  sleep,  while  the  weeds 
grew  at  their  own  sweet  will,  and  the  currant 
worms  went  looping  and  devouring  from  twig 
to  twig. 

ni. 

Summer  went  by,  and  winter  began,  and 
Mr.  Jerry  Lane  did  not  reappear.  He  had 
promised  to  return  in  September,  when  he 
parted  from  his  wife  early  in  June,  for  Nancy 
had  relented  a  little  at  the  last,  and  sorrowed 
at  the  prospect  of  so  long  a  separation.  She 
had  already  learned  the  vacillations  and  un- 
certainties of  her  husband's  character;  but 
though  she  accepted  the  truth  that  her  mar- 
riage had  been  in  every  way  a  piece  of  foolish- 
ness, she  still  clung  affectionately  to  his  as- 
sumed fondness  for  her.  She  could  not  believe 
that  his  marriage  was  only  one  of  his  make- 
shifts, and  that  as  soon  as  he  grew  tired  of  the 
constraint  he  was  ready  to  throw  the  benefits 
of  respectable  home  life  to  the  four  winds.  A 
little  sentimental  speech-making  and  a  few 
kisses  the  morning  he  went  away,  and  the 
gratitude  he  might  well  have  shown  for  her 


106  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

generous  care-taking  and  provision  for  his  voy- 
age won  her  soft  heart  back  again,  and  made 
poor,  elderly,  simple-hearted  Nancy  watch  him 
cross  the  marshes  with  tears  and  foreboding. 
If  she  could  have  called  him  back  that  day,  she 
would  have  done  so  and  been  thankful.  And 
all  summer  and  winter,  whenever  the  wind 
blew  and  thrashed  the  drooping  elm  boughs 
against  the  low  roof  over  her  head,  she  was  as 
full  of  fears  and  anxieties  as  if  Jerry  were  her 
only  son  and  making  his  first  voyage  at  sea. 
The  neighbors  pitied  her  for  her  disappoint- 
ment. They  liked  Nancy  ;  but  they  could  not 
help  saying,  "  I  told  you  so."  It  would  have 
been  impossible  not  to  respect  the  brave  way 
in  which  she  met  the  world's  eye,  and  carried 
herself  with  innocent  unconsciousness  of  hav- 
ing committed  so  laughable  and  unrewarding 
a  folly.  The  loafers  on  the  store  steps  had 
been  unwontedly  diverted  one  day,  when  Jerry, 
who  was  their  chief  wit  and  spokesman,  rose 
slowly  from  his  place,  and  said  in  pious  tones, 
"  Boys,  I  must  go  this  minute.  Grandma  will 
keep  dinner  waiting."  Mrs.  Ann  Lane  did 
not  show  in  her  aging  face  how  young  her 
heart  was,  and  after  the  schooner  Susan  Barnes 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  107 

had  departed  she  seemed  to  pass  swiftly  from 
middle  life  and  an  almost  youthful  vigor  to 
early  age  and  a  look  of  spent  strength  and  dis- 
satisfaction. "  I  suppose  he  did  find  it  dull," 
she  assured  herself,  with  wistful  yearning  for 
his  rough  words  of  praise,  when  she  sat  down 
alone  to  her  dinner,  or  looked  up  sadly  from, 
her  work,  and  missed  the  amusing  though  un- 
edifying  conversation  he  was  wont  to  offer  occa- 
sionally on  stormy  winter  nights.  How  much 
of  his  adventuring  was  true  she  never  cared  to 
ask.  He  had  come  and  gone,  and  she  forgave 
him  his  shortcomings,  and  longed  for  his  so- 
ciety with  a  heavy  heart. 

One  spring  day  there  was  news  in  the  Bos- 
ton paper  of  the  loss  of  the  schooner  Susan 
Barnes  with  all  on  board,  and  Nancy  Lane's 
best  friends  shook  their  sage  heads,  and  de- 
clared that  as  far  as  regarded  Jerry  Lane,  that 
idle  vagabond,  it  was  all  for  the  best.  Nobody 
was  interested  in  any  other  member  of  the 
crew,  so  the  misfortune  of  the  Susan  Barnes 
seemed  of  but  slight  consequence  in  Walpole, 
she  having  passed  out  of  her  former  owners' 
hands  the  autumn  before.  Jerry  had  stuck  by 
the  ship  ;  at  least,  so  he  had  sent  word  then  to 


108  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

his  wife  by  Skipper  Nathan  Low.  The  Susan 
Barnes  was  to  sail  regularly  between  Shecliac 
and  Newfoundland,  and  Jerry  sent  five  dollars 
to  Nancy,  and  promised  to  pay  her  a  visit  soon. 
"  Tell  her  I  'm  layin'  up  somethin'  handsome," 
he  told  the  skipper  with  a  grin,  "  and  I  've  got 
some  folks  in  Newfoundland  I  '11  visit  with  on 
this  voyage,  and  then  I  '11  come  ashore  for  good 
and  farm  it." 

Mrs.  Lane  took  the  five  dollars  from  the 
skipper  as  proudly  as  if  Jerry  had  done  the 
same  thing  so  many  times  before  that  she 
hardly  noticed  it.  The  skipper  gave  the  mes- 
sages from  Jerry,  and  felt  that  he  had  done 
the  proper  thing.  When  the  news  came  long 
afterward  that  the  schooner  was  lost,  that  was 
the  next  thing  that  Nancy  knew  about  her 
wandering  mate ;  and  after  the  minister  had 
come  solemnly  to  inform  her  of  her  bereave- 
ment, and  had  gone  away  again,  and  she  sat 
down  and  looked  her  widowhood  in  the  face, 
there  was  not  a  sadder  nor  a  lonelier  woman 
in  the  town  of  Walpole. 

All  the  neighbors  came  to  condole  with  our 
heroine,  and,  though  nobody  was  aware  of  it, 
from  that  time  she  was  really  happier  and  bet- 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  109 

ter  satisfied  with  life  than  she  had  ever  been 
before.  Now  she  had  an  ideal  Jerry  Lane  to 
mourn  over  and  think  about,  to  cherish  and 
admire  ;  she  was  day  by  day  slowly  forgetting 
the  trouble  he  had  been  and  the  bitter  shame 
of  him,  and  exalting  his  memory  to  something 
near  saintliness.  "  He  meant  well,"  she  told 
herself  again  and  again.  She  thought  nobody 
could  tell  so  good  a  story ;  she  felt  that  with 
her  own  bustling,  capable  ways  he  had  no 
chance  to  do  much  that  he  might  have  done. 
She  had  been  too  quick  with  him,  and  alas, 
alas  !  how  much  better  she  would  know  how 
to  treat  him  if  she  only  could  see  him  again ! 
A  sense  of  relief  at  his  absence  made  her  con- 
tinually assure  herself  of  her  great  loss,  and, 
false  even  to  herself,  she  mourned  her  some- 
time lover  diligently,  and  tried  to  think  her- 
self a  broken-hearted  woman.  It  was  thought 
among  those  who  knew  Nancy  Lane  best  that 
she  would  recover  her  spirits  in  time,  but 
Jerry's  wildest  anticipations  of  a  proper  re- 
spect to  his  memory  were  more  than  realized 
in  the  first  two  years  after  the  schooner  Susan 
Barnes  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  She 
mourned  for  the  man  he  ought  to  have  been, 


110  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

not  for  the  real  Jerry,  but  she  had  loved  him 
in  the  beginning  enough  to  make  her  own  love 
a  precious  possession  for  all  time  to  come.  It 
did  not  matter  much,  after  all,  what  manner  of 
man  he  was  ;  she  had  found  in  him  something 
on  which  to  spend  her  hoarded  affection. 


IV. 

Nancy  Lane  was  a  peaceable  woman  and  a 
good  neighbor,  but  she  never  had  been  able  to 
get  on  with  one  fellow  townswoman,  and  that 
was  Mrs.  Deacon  Elton.  They  managed  to 
keep  each  other  provoked  and  teased  from  one 
year's  end  to  the  other,  and  each  good  soul  felt 
herself  under  a  moral  microscope,  and  under- 
stood that  she  was  judged  by  a  not  very  lenient 
criticism  and  discussion.  Mrs.  Lane  clad  her- 
self in  simple  black  after  the  news  came  of  her 
husband's  timely  death,  and  Mrs.  Elton  made 
one  of  her  farewell  pilgrimages  to  church  to 
see  the  new-made  widow  walk  up  the  aisle. 

"  She  need  n't  tell  me  she  lays  that  affliction 
so  much  to  heart,"  the  deacon's  wife  sniffed 
faintly,  after  her  exhaustion  had  been  met  by 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  Ill 

proper  treatment  of  camphor  and  a  glass  of 
currant  wine,  at  the  parsonage,  where  she 
rested  a  while  after  service.  "  Nancy  Floyd 
knows  she  's  well  over  with  such  a  piece  of 
nonsense.  If  I  had  had  my  health,  I  should 
have  spoken  with  her  and  urged  her  not  to 
take  the  step  in  the  first  place.  She  has  n't 
spoken  six  beholden  words  to  me  since  that 
vagabond  come  to  Walpole.  I  dare  say  she 
may  have  heard  something  I  said  at  the  time 
she  married.  I  declare  for  't,  I  never  was  so 
outdone  as  I  was  when  the  deacon  came  home 
and  told  me  Nancy  Floyd  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. She  let  herself  down  too  low  to  ever 
hold  the  place  again  that  she  used  to  have  in 
folks'  minds.  And  it 's  my  opinion,"  said  the 
sharp-eyed  little  woman,  "  she  ain't  got  through 
with  her  pay  yet." 

But  Mrs.  Elton  did  not  know  with  what  un- 
conscious prophecy  her  words  were  freighted. 

The  months  passed  by  :  summer  and  winter 
came  and  went,  and  even  those  few  persons 
who  were  misled  by  Nancy  Lane's  stern  visage 
and  forbidding  exterior  into  forgetting  her 
kind  heart  were  at  last  won  over  to  friendli- 


112  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

ness  by  her  renewed  devotion  to  the  sick  and 
old  people  of  the  rural  community.  She  was 
so  tender  to  little  children  that  they  all  loved 
her  dearly.  She  was  ready  to  go  to  any  house- 
hold that  needed  help,  and  in  spite  of  her 
ceaseless  industry  with  her  needle  she  found 
many  a  chance  to  do  good,  and  help  her  neigh- 
bors to  lift  and  carry  the  burdens  of  their  lives. 
She  blossomed  out  suddenly  into  a  lovely, 
painstaking  eagerness  to  be  of  use ;  it  seemed 
as  if  her  affectionate  heart,  once  made  gener- 
ous, must  go  on  spending  its  wealth  wherever 
it  could  find  an  excuse.  Even  Mrs.  Elton  her- 
self was  touched  by  her  old  enemy's  evident 
wish  to  be  friends,  and  said  nothing  more  about 
poor  Nancy's  looking  as  savage  as  a  hawk. 
The  only  thing  to  admit  was  the  truth  that  her 
affliction  had  proved  a  blessing  to  her.  And 
it  was  in  a  truly  kind  and  compassionate  spirit 
that,  after  hearing  an  awful  piece  of  news,  the 
deacon's  hysterical  wife  forbore  to  spread  it  far 
and  wide  through  the  town  first,  and  went 
down  to  the  Widow  Lane's  one  September 
afternoon.  Nancy  was  stitching  busily  upon 
the  deacon's  new  coat,  and  looked  up  with  a 
friendly  smile  as  her  guest  came  in,  in  spite  of' 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  113 

an  instinctive  shrug  as  she  had  seen  her  com- 
ing up  the  yard.  The  dislike  of  the  poor  souls 
for  each  other  was  deeper  than  their  philoso- 
phy could  reach. 

Mrs.  Elton  spent  some  minutes  in  the  un- 
necessary endeavor  to  regain  her  breath,  and 
to  her  surprise  found  she  must  make  a  real 
effort  before  she  could  tell  her  unwelcome 
news.  She  had  been  so  full  of  it  all  the  way 
from  home  that  she  had  rehearsed  the  whole 
interview  ;  now  she  hardly  knew  how  to  begin. 
Nancy  looked  serener  than  usual,  but  there 
was  something  wistful  about  her  face  as  she 
glanced  across  the  room,  presently,  as  if  to 
understand  the  reason  of  the  long  pause.  The 
clock  ticked  loudly ;  the  kitten  clattered  a 
spool  against  the  table-leg,  and  had  begun  to 
snarl  the  thread  around  her  busy  paws,  and 
Nancy  looked  down  and  saw  her ;  then  the  in- 
stant consciousness  of  there  being  some  un- 
happy reason  for  Mrs.  Elton's  call  made  her 
forget  the  creature's  mischief,  and  anxiously 
lay  down  her  work  to  listen. 

"  Skipper  Nathan  Low  was  to  our  house  to 
dinner,"  the  guest  began.  "  He  's  bargaining 
with  the  deacon  about  some  hay.  He 's  got  a 


114  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

new  schooner,  Skipper  Nathan  has,  and  is  go- 
ing to  build  up  a  regular  business  of  freight- 
ing hay  to  Boston  by  sea.  There  's  no  market 
to  speak  of  about  here,  unless  you  haul  it  way 
over  to  Downer,  and  you  can't  make  but  one 
turn  a  day." 

"  'T  would  be  a  good  thing,"  replied  Nancy, 
trying  to  think  that  this  was  all,  and  perhaps 
the  deacon  wanted  to  hire  her  own  field  an- 
other year.  He  had  underpaid  her  once,  and 
they  had  not  been  on  particularly  good  terms 
ever  since.  She  would  make  her  own  bargains 
with  Skipper  Nathan,  she  thanked  him  and  his 
wife ! 

"  He  's  been  down  to  the  provinces  these 
two  or  three  years  back,  you  know,"  the  whin- 
ing voice  went  on,  and  straightforward  Ann 
Lane  felt  the  old  animosity  rising  within  her. 
"  At  dinner  time  I  was  n't  able  to  eat  much 
of  anything,  and  so  I  was  talking  with  Cap'n 
Nathan,  and  asking  him  some  questions  about 
them  parts  ;  and  I  spoke  something  about  the 
mercy  't  was  his  life  should  ha'  been  spared 
when  that  schooner,  the  Susan  Barnes,  was  lost 
so  quick  after  he  sold  out  his  part  of  her.  And 
I  put  in  a  word,  bein'  's  we  were  neighbors, 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  115 

about  how  edifyin'  your  course  had  be'n  under 
affliction.  I  noticed  then  he  'd  looked  sort 
o'  queer  whilst  I  was  talkin',  but  there  was  all 
the  folks  to  the  table,  and  you  know  he 's  a 
very  cautious  man,  so  he  spoke  of  somethin' 
else.  'T  wa'n't  half  an  hour  after  dinner,  I 
was  comin'  in  with  some  plates  and  cups,  try- 
in'  to  help  what  my  stren'th  would  let  me,  and 
says  he,  '  Step  out  a  little  ways  into  the  piece 
with  me,  Mis'  Elton.  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  ye.'  I  went,  too,  spite  o'  my  neuralgy, 
for  I  saw  he  'd  got  somethin'  on  his  mind. 
'  Look  here,'  says  he,  '  I  gathered  from  the 
way  you  spoke  that  Jerry  Lane's  wife  expects 
he  's  dead.'  Certain,  says  I,  his  name  was  in 
the  list  o'  the  Susan  Barnes's  crew,  and  we 
read  it  in  the  paper.  4  No,'  says  he  to  me,  4  he 
ran  away  the  day  they  sailed ;  he  was  n't 
aboard,  and  he  's  livin'  with  another  woman 
down  to  Shediac.'  Them  was  his  very  words." 
Nancy  Lane  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and 
covered  her  horror  -  stricken  eyes  with  her 
hands.  "  'T  ain't  pleasant  news  to  have  to 
tell,"  Sister  Elton  went  on  mildly,  yet  with  ev- 
ident relish  and  full  command  of  the  occasion. 
"  He  said  he  seen  Jerry  the  morning  he  came 


116  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

away.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  it.  I  '11 
tell  you  one  thing,  Nancy :  I  told  the  skipper 
to  keep  still  about  it,  and  now  I  've  told  you, 
I  won't  spread  it  no  further  to  set  folks  a-talk- 
ing.  I  '11  keep  it  secret  till  you  say  the  word. 
There  ain't  much  trafficking  betwixt  here  and 
there,  and  he  's  dead  to  you,  certain,  as  much 
as  if  he  laid  up  here  in  the  bury  ing-ground." 

Nancy  had  bowed  her  head  upon  the  table  ; 
the  thin  sandy  hair  was  streaked  with  gray. 
She  did  not  answer  one  word ;  this  was  the 
hardest  blow  of  all. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  being  so 
friendly,"  she  said  after  a  few  minutes,  look- 
ing straight  before  her  now  in  a  dazed  sort  of 
way,  and  lifting  the  new  coat  from  the  floor, 
where  it  had  fallen.  "  Yes,  he  's  dead  to  me, 
—  worse  than  dead,  a  good  deal,"  and  her  lip 
quivered.  "  I  can't  seem  to  bring  my  thoughts 
to  bear.  I  Ve  got  so  used  to  thinkin'  —  No, 
don't  you  say  nothin'  to  the  folks,  yet.  I  'd  do 
as  much  for  you."  And  Mrs.  Elton  knew  that 
the  smitten  fellow-creature  before  her  spoke 
the  truth,  and  forebore. 

Two  or  three  days  came  and  went,  and  with 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  117 

every  hour  the  quiet,  simple  -  hearted  woman 
felt  more  grieved  and  unsteady  in  mind  and 
body.  Such  a  shattering  thunderbolt  of  news 
rarely  falls  into  a  human  life.  She  could  not 
sleep ;  she  wandered  to  and  fro  in  the  little 
house,  and  cried  until  she  could  cry  no  longer. 
Then  a  great  rage  spurred  and  excited  her. 
She  would  go  to  Shediac,  and  call  Jerry  Lane 
to  account.  She  would  accuse  him  face  to 
face  ;  and  the  woman  whom  he  was  deceiving, 
as  perhaps  he  had  deceived  her,  should  know 
the  baseness  and  cowardice  of  this  miserable 
man.  So,  dressed  in  her  respectable  Sunday 
clothes,  in  the  gray  bonnet  and  shawl  that 
never  had  known  any  journeys  except  to  meet- 
ing, or  to  a  country  funeral  or  quiet  holiday- 
making,  Nancy  Lane  trusted  herself  for  the 
first  time  to  the  bewildering  railway,  to  the 
temptations  and  dangers  of  the  wide  world 
outside  the  bounds  of  Walpole. 

Two  or  three  days  later  still,  the  quaint,  thin 
figure  familiar  in  Walpole  highways  flitted 
down  the  street  of  a  provincial  town.  In  the 
most  primitive  region  of  China  this  woman 
could  hardly  have  felt  a  greater  sense  of  for- 
eign life  and  strangeness.  At  another  time 


118  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

her  native  good  sense  and  shrewd  observation 
would  have  delighted  in  the  experiences  of  this 
first  week  of  travel,  but  she  was  too  sternly 
angry  and  aggrieved,  too  deeply  plunged  in  a 
survey  of  her  own  calamity,  to  take  much  no- 
tice of  what  was  going  on  about  her.  Later 
she  condemned  the  unworthy  folly  of  the  whole 
errand,  but  in  these  days  the  impulse  to  seek 
the  culprit  and  confront  him  was  irresistible. 

The  innkeeper's  wife,  a  kindly  creature,  had 
urged  this  puzzling  guest  to  wait  and  rest  and 
eat  some  supper,  but  Nancy  refused,  and  with- 
out asking  her  way  left  the  brightly  lighted, 
flaring  little  public  room,  where  curious  eyes 
already  offended  her,  and  went  out  into  the 
damp  twilight.  The  voices  of  the  street  boys 
sounded  outlandish,  and  she  felt  more  and 
more  lonely.  She  longed  for  Jerry  to  appear 
for  protection's  sake ;  she  forgot  why  she  sought 
him,  and  was  eager  to  shelter  herself  behind 
the  flimsy  bulwark  of  his  manhood.  She  re- 
buked herself  presently  with  terrible  bitterness 
for  a  womanish  wonder  whether  he  would  say, 
"  Why,  Nancy,  girl !  "  and  be  glad  to  see  her. 
Poor  woman,  it  was  a  work-laden,  serious  girl- 
hood that  had  been  hers,  at  any  rate.  The 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  119 

power  of  giving  her  whole  self  in  unselfish,  en- 
thusiastic, patient  devotion  had  not  belonged  to 
her  youth  only  ;  it  had  sprung  fresh  and  blos- 
soming in  her  heart  as  every  new  year  came 
and  went. 

One  might  have  seen  her  stealing  through  the 
shadows,  skirting  the  edge  of  a  lumber-yard, 
stepping  among  the  refuse  of  the  harbor  side, 
asking  a  question  timidly  now  and  then  of 
some  passer-by.  Yes,  they  knew  Jerry  Lane, 
—  his  house  was  only  a  little  way  off  ;  and  one 
curious  and  compassionate  Scotchman,  divin- 
ing by  some  inner  sense  the  exciting  nature  of 
the  errand,  turned  back,  and  offered  fruitlessly 
to  go  with  the  stranger.  "  You  know  the 
man  ?  "  he  asked.  "  He  is  his  own  enemy, 
but  doing  better  now  that  he  is  married.  He 
minds  his  work,  I  know  that  well ;  but  he  's 
taken  a  good  wife."  Nancy's  heart  beat  faster 
with  honest  pride  for  a  moment,  until  the 
shadow  of  the  ugly  truth  and  reality  made  it 
sink  back  to  heaviness,  and  the  fire  of  her 
smouldering  rage  was  again  kindled.  She 
would  speak  to  Jerry  face  to  face  before  she 
slept,  and  a  horrible  contempt  and  scorn  were 
ready  for  him,  as  with  a  glance  either  way 


120  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

along  the  road  she  entered  the  narrow  yard, 
and  went  noiselessly  toward  the  window  of  a 
low,  poor-looking  house,  from  whence  a  bright 
light  was  shining  out  into  the  night. 

Yes,  there  was  Jerry,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she  must  faint  and  fall  at  the  sight  of  him. 
How  young  he  looked  still !  The  thought 
smote  her  like  a  blow.  They  never  were 
mates  for  each  other,  Jerry  and  she.  Her 
own  life  was  waning  ;  she  was  an  old  woman. 

He  never  had  been  so  thrifty  and  respect- 
able before  ;  the  other  woman  ought  to  know 
the  savage  truth  about  him,  for  all  that !  But 
at  that  moment  the  other  woman  stooped  be- 
side the  supper  table,  and  lifted  a  baby  from 
its  cradle,  and  put  the  dear,  live  little  thing 
into  its  father's  arms.  The  baby  was  wide 
awake,  and  laughed  at  Jerry,  who  laughed 
back  again,  and  it  reached  up  to  catch  at  a 
handful  of  the  curly  hair  which  had  been  poor 
Nancy's  delight. 

The  other  woman  stood  there  looking  at 
them,  full  of  pride  and  love.  She  was  young, 
and  trig,  and  neat.  She  looked  a  brisk,  effi- 
cient little  creature.  Perhaps  Jerry  would 
make  something  of  himself  now;  he  always 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  121 

had  it  in  him.  The  tears  were  running  down 
Nancy's  cheeks  ;  the  rain,  too,  had  begun  to 
fall.  She  stood  there  watching  the  little  house- 
hold sit  down  to  supper,  and  noticed  with 
eager  envy  how  well  cooked  the  food  was,  and 
how  hungrily  the  master  of  the  house  ate  what 
was  put  before  him.  All  thoughts  of  ending 
the  new  wife's  sin  and  folly  vanished  away. 
She  could  not  enter  in  and  break  another 
heart ;  hers  was  broken  already,  and  it  would 
not  matter.  And  Nancy  Lane,  a  widow  in- 
deed, crept  away  again,  as  silently  as  she  had 
come,  to  think  what  was  best  to  be  done,  to 
find  alternate  woe  and  comfort  in  the  memory 
of  the  sight  she  had  seen. 

The  little  house  at  the  edge  of  the  Walpole 
marshes  seemed  full  of  blessed  shelter  and 
comfort  the  evening  that  its  forsaken  mistress 
came  back  to  it.  Her  strength  was  spent ;  she 
felt  much  more  desolate  now  that  she  had  seen 
with  her  own  eyes  that  Jerry  Lane  was  alive 
than  when  he  was  counted  among  the  dead. 
An  uncharacteristic  disregard  of  the  laws  of 
the  land  filled  this  good  woman's  mind.  Jerry 
had  his  life  to  live,  and  she  wished  him  no 


122  MARSH  ROSEMARY. 

harm.  She  wondered  often  how  the  baby 
grew.  She  fancied  sometimes  the  changes 
and  conditions  of  the  far  -  away  household. 
Alas  !  she  knew  only  too  well  the  weakness 
of  the  man,  and  once,  in  a  grim  outburst  of 
impatience,  she  exclaimed,  "  I  Jd  rather  she 
should  have  to  cope  with  him  than  me  !  " 

But  that  evening,  when  she  came  back  from 
Shediac,  and  sat  in  the  dark  for  a  long  time, 
lest  Mrs.  Elton  should  see  the  light  and  risk 
her  life  in  the  evening  air  to  bring  unwelcome 
sympathy,  —  that  evening,  I  say,  came  the 
hardest  moment  of  all,  when  the  Ann  Floyd, 
tailoress,  of  so  many  virtuous,  self-respecting 
years,  whose  idol  had  turned  to  clay,  who  was 
shamed,  disgraced,  and  wronged,  sat  down 
alone  to  supper  in  the  little  kitchen. 

She  had  put  one  cup  and  saucer  on  the  ta- 
ble ;  she  looked  at  them  through  bitter  tears. 
Somehow  a  consciousness  of  her  solitary  age, 
her  uncompanioned  future,  rushed  through  her 
mind ;  this  failure  of  her  best  earthly  hope 
was  enough  to  break  a  stronger  woman's 
heart. 

Who  can  laugh  at  my  Marsh  Rosemary,  or 
who  can  cry,  for  that  matter  ?  The  gray  prim. 


MARSH  ROSEMARY.  123 

ness  of  the  plant  is  made  up  of  a  hundred  col- 
ors, if  you  look  close  enough  to  find  them. 
This  same  Marsh  Kosemary  stands  in  her  own 
place,  and  holds  her  dry  leaves  and  tiny  blos- 
soms steadily  toward  the  same  sun  that  the 
pink  lotus  blooms  for,  and  the  white  rose. 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

To  be  leaders  of  society  in  the  town  of  Dul- 
ham  was  as  satisfactory  to  Miss  Dobin  and 
Miss  Lucinda  Dobin  as  if  Dulham  were  Lon- 
don itself.  Of  late  years,  though  they  would 
not  allow  themselves  to  suspect  such  treason, 
the  most  ill-bred  of  the  younger  people  in  the 
village  made  fun  of  them  behind  their  backs, 
and  laughed  at  their  treasured  summer  man- 
tillas, their  mincing  steps,  and  the  shape  of 
their  parasols. 

They  were  always  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
they  were  the  daughters  of  a  once  eminent 
Dulham  minister ;  but  beside  this  unanswer- 
able claim  to  the  respect  of  the  First  Parish, 
they  were  aware  that  their  mother's  social  po- 
sition was  one  of  superior  altitude.  Madam 
Dobin's  grandmother  was  a  Greenaple,  of  Bos- 
ton. In  her  younger  days  she  had  often  vis- 
ited her  relatives,  the  Greenaples  and  High- 
trees,  and  in  seasons  of  festivity  she  could 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  125 

relate  to  a  select  and  properly  excited  audience 
her  delightful  experiences  of  town  life.  Noth- 
ing could  be  finer  than  her  account  of  having 
taken  tea  at  Governor  Clovenfoot's  on  Beacon 
Street  in  company  with  an  English  lord,  who 
was  indulging  himself  in  a  brief  vacation  from 
his  arduous  duties  at  the  Court  of  St.  James. 

"  He  exclaimed  that  he  had  seldom  seen  in 
England  so  beautiful  and  intelligent  a  com- 
pany of  ladies,"  Madam  Dobin  would  always 
say  in  conclusion.  "He  was  decorated  with 
the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Knights  of  the  Garter." 
Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  thought  for 
many  years  that  this  famous  blue  ribbon  was 
tied  about  the  noble  gentleman's  leg.  One 
day  they  even  discussed  the  question  openly ; 
Miss  Dobin  placing  the  decoration  at  his  knee, 
and  Miss  Lucinda  locating  it  much  lower 
down,  according  to  the  length  of  the  short 
gray  socks  with  which  she  was  familiar. 

"  You  have  no  imagination,  Lucinda,"  the 
elder  sister  replied  impatiently.  "  Of  course, 
those  were  the  days  of  small-clothes  and  long 
silk  stockings  !  "  —  whereat  Miss  Lucinda  was 
rebuked,  but  not  persuaded. 

"  I  wish  that  my  dear  girls  could  have  the 


126  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

outlook  upon  society  which  fell  to  my  por- 
tion," Madam  Dobin  sighed,  after  she  had  set 
these  ignorant  minds  to  rights,  and  enriched 
them  by  communicating  the  final  truth  about 
the  blue  ribbon.  "  I  must  not  chide  you  for 
the  absence  of  opportunities,  but  if  our  cousin 
Harriet  Greenaple  were  only  living  you  would 
not  lack  enjoyment  or  social  education." 

Madam  Dobin  had  now  been  dead  a  great 
many  years.  She  seemed  an  elderly  woman 
to  her  daughters  some  time  before  she  left 
them ;  later  they  thought  that  she  had  really 
died  comparatively  young,  since  their  own 
years  had  come  to  equal  the  record  of  hers. 
When  they  visited  her  tall  white  tombstone  in 
the  orderly  Dulham  burying-ground,  it  was  a 
strange  thought  to  both  the  daughters  that 
they  were  older  women  than  their  mother  had 
been  when  she  died.  To  be  sure,  it  was  the 
fashion  to  appear  older  in  her  day,  —  they 
could  remember  the  sober  effect  of  really 
youthful  married  persons  in  cap  and  frisette  ; 
but,  whether  they  owed  it  to  the  changed  times 
or  to  their  own  qualities,  they  felt  no  older 
themselves  than  ever  they  had.  Beside  up- 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  127 

holding  the  ministerial  dignity  of  their  father, 
they  were  obliged  to  give  a  lenient  sanction  to 
the  ways  of  the  world  for  their  mother's  sake; 
and  they  combined  the  two  duties  with  rever- 
ence and  impartiality. 

Madam  Dobin  was,  in  her  prime,  a  walking 
example  of  refinements  and  courtesies.  If  she 
erred  in  any  way,  it  was  by  keeping  too  strict 
watch  and  rule  over  her  small  kingdom.  She 
acted  with  great  dignity  in  all  matters  of  so- 
cial administration  and  etiquette,  but,  while  it 
must  be  owned  that  the  parishioners  felt  a 
sense  of  freedom  for  a  time  after  her  death, 
in  their  later  years  they  praised  and  valued 
her  more  and  more,  and  often  lamented  her 
generously  and  sincerely. 

Several  of  her  distinguished  relatives  at- 
tended Madam  Dobin' s  funeral,  which  was 
long  considered  the  most  dignified  and  elegant 
pageant  of  that  sort  which  had  ever  taken 
place  in  Dulham.  It  seemed  to  mark  the 
close  of  a  famous  epoch  in  Dulham  history, 
and  it  was  increasingly  difficult  forever  after- 
ward to  keep  the  tone  of  society  up  to  the  old 
standard.  Somehow,  the  distinguished  rela- 
tives had  one  by  one  disappeared,  though  they 


128  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

all  had  excellent  reasons  for  the  discontinu- 
ance of  their  visits.  A  few  had  left  this  world 
altogether,  and  the  family  circle  of  the  Green- 
aples  and  Hightrees  was  greatly  reduced  in 
circumference.  Sometimes,  in  summer,  a  stray 
connection  drifted  Dulham-ward,  and  was  dis- 
played to  the  townspeople  (not  to  say,  pa- 
raded) by  the  gratified  hostesses.  It  was  a 
disappointment  if  the  guest  could  not  be  per- 
suaded to  remain  over  Sunday  and  appear  at 
church.  When  household  antiquities  became 
fashionable,  the  ladies  remarked  a  surprising 
interest  in  their  corner  cupboard  and  best 
chairs,  and  some  distant  relatives  revived  their 
almost  forgotten  custom  of  paying  a  summer 
visit  to  Dulham.  They  were  not  long  in  find- 
ing out  with  what  desperate  affection  Miss 
Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  clung  to  their  moth- 
er's wedding  china  and  other  inheritances,  and 
were  allowed  to  depart  without  a  single  tea- 
cup. One  graceless  descendant  of  the  High- 
trees  prowled  from  garret  to  cellar,  and  ad- 
mired the  household  belongings  diligently,  but 
she  was  not  asked  to  accept  even  the  dislo- 
cated cherry-wood  footstool  that  she  had  dis- 
covered in  the  far  corner  of  the  parsonage 
pew. 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  129 

Some  of  the  Dulham  friends  had  long  sus- 
pected that  Madam  Dobin  made  a  social  mis- 
step when  she  chose  the  Reverend  Edward 
Dobin  for  her  husband.  She  was  no  longer 
young  when  she  married,  and  though  she  had 
gone  through  the  wood  and  picked  up  a 
cropked  stick  at  last,  it  made  a  great  differ- 
ence that  her  stick  possessed  an  ecclesiastical 
bark.  The  Reverend  Edward  was,  moreover, 
a  respectable  graduate  of  Harvard  College, 
and  to  a  woman  of  her  standards  a  clergyman 
was  by  no  means  insignificant.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  respect  his  office,  at  any  rate,  and 
she  must  have  treated  him  with  proper  vener- 
ation for  the  sake  of  that,  if  for  no  other  rea- 
son, though  his  early  advantages  had  been  in- 
sufficient, and  he  was  quite  insensible  to  the 
claims  of  the  Greenaple  pedigree,  and  pre- 
ferred an  Indian  pudding  to  pie  crust  that 
was,  without  exaggeration,  half  a  quarter  high. 
The  delicacy  of  Madam  Dobin's  touch  and 
preference  in  everything,  from  hymns  to  cook- 
ery, was  quite  lost  upon  this  respected 
preacher,  yet  he  was  not  without  pride  or 
complete  confidence  in  his  own  decisions. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Dobin  was  never  very 


130  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

enlightening  in  his  discourses,  and  was  prov- 
identially stopped  short  by  a  stroke  of  paraly- 
sis in  the  middle  of  his  clerical  career.  He 
lived  on  and  on  through  many  dreary  years, 
but  his  children  never  accepted  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  tyrant,  and  served  him  humbly  and 
patiently.  He  fell  at  last  into  a  condition  of 
great  incapacity  and  chronic  trembling,  but 
was  able  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  to 
be  carried  to  the  meeting-house  from  time  to 
time  to  pronounce  farewell  discourses.  On 
high  days  of  the  church  he  was  always  placed 
in  the  pulpit,  and  held  up  his  shaking  hands 
when  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  as  if 
the  divine  gift  were  exclusively  his  own,  and 
the  other  minister  did  but  say  empty  words. 
Afterward,  he  was  usually  tired  and  displeased 
and  hard  to  cope  with,  but  there  was  always  a 
proper  notice  taken  of  these  too  often  recur- 
ring events.  For  old  times'  and  for  pity's 
sake  and  from  natural  goodness  of  heart,  the 
elder  parishioners  rallied  manfully  about  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Dobin  ;  and  whoever  his  suc- 
cessor or  colleague  might  be,  the  Dobins  were 
always  called  the  minister's  folks,  while  the 
active  laborer  in  that  vineyard  was  only  Mr. 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  131 

Smith  or  Mr.  Jones,  as  the  case  might  be.  At 
last  the  poor  old  man  died,  to  everybody's  re- 
lief and  astonishment ;  and  after  he  was  prop- 
erly preached  about  and  lamented,  his  daugh- 
ters, Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda,  took  a 
good  look  at  life  from  a  new  standpoint,  and 
decided  that  now  they  were  no  longer  con- 
strained by  home  duties  they  must  make  them- 
selves a  great  deal  more  used  to  the  town. 

Sometimes  there  is  such  a  household  as  this 
(which  has  been  perhaps  too  minutely  de- 
scribed), where  the  parents  linger  until  their 
children  are  far  past  middle  age,  and  always 
keep  them  in  a  too  childish  and  unworthy  state 
of  subjection.  The  Misses  Dobin' s  characters 
were  much  influenced  by  such  an  unnatural 
prolongation  of  the  filial  relationship,  and  they 
were  amazingly  slow  to  suspect  that  they  were 
not  so  young  as  they  used  to  be.  There  was 
nothing  to  measure  themselves  by  but  Dulham 
people  and  things.  The  elm-trees  were  grow- 
ing yet,  and  many  of  the  ladies  of  the  First 
Parish  were  older  than  they,  and  called  them, 
with  pleasant  familiarity,  the  Dobin  girls. 
These  elderly  persons  seemed  really  to  be 
growing  old,  and  Miss  Lucinda  frequently  la- 


132  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

merited  the  change  in  society ;  she  thought  it 
a  freak  of  nature  and  too  sudden  blighting  of 
earthly  hopes  that  several  charming  old  friends 
of  her  mother's  were  no  longer  living.  They 
were  advanced  in  age  when  Miss  Lucinda  was 
a  young  girl,  though  time  and  space  are  but 
relative,  after  all. 

Their  influence  upon  society  would  have 
made  a  great  difference  in  many  ways.  Cer- 
tainly, the  new  parishioners,  who  had  often 
enough  been  instructed  to  pronounce  their 
pastor's  name  as  if  it  were  spelled  with  one 
"  b,"  would  not  have  boldly  returned  again 
and  again  to  their  obnoxious  habit  of  saying 
Dobbin.  Miss  Lucinda  might  carefully  speak 
to  the  neighbor  and  new-comers  of  "  my  sister, 
Miss  Do-bin ;  "  only  the  select  company  of  in- 
timates followed  her  lead,  and  at  last  there  was 
something  humiliating  about  it,  even  though 
many  persons  spoke  of  them  only  as  "  the 
ladies." 

"  The  name  was  originally  D'Aubigne,  we 
think,"  Miss  Lucinda  would  say  coldly  and 
patiently,  as  if  she  had  already  explained  this 
foolish  mistake  a  thousand  times  too  often. 
It  was  like  the  sorrows  in  many  a  provincial 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  133 

chateau  in  the  Reign  of  Terror.  The  ladies 
looked  on  with  increasing  dismay  at  the  retro- 
gression in  society.  They  felt  as  if  they  were 
a  feeble  garrison,  to  whose  lot  it  had  fallen  to 
repulse  a  noisy,  irreverent  mob,  an  increasing 
band  of  marauders  who  would  overthrow  all 
land-marks  of  the  past,  all  etiquette  and  social 
rank.  The  new  minister  himself  was  a  round- 
faced,  unspiritual-looking  young  man,  whom 
they  would  have  instinctively  ignored  if  he  had 
not  been  a  minister.  The  new  people  who 
came  to  Dulham  were  not  like  the  older  resi- 
dents, and  they  had  no  desire  to  be  taught  bet- 
ter. Little  they  cared  about  the  Greenaples 
or  the  Hightrees  ;  and  once,  when  Miss  Dobin 
essayed  to  speak  of  some  detail  of  her  mother's 
brilliant  opportunities  in  Boston  high  life,  she 
was  interrupted,  and  the  new-comer  who  sat 
next  her  at  the  parish  sewing  society  began  to 
talk  about  something  else.  We  cannot  believe 
that  it  could  have  been  the  tea-party  at  Gov- 
ernor Clovenfoot's  which  the  rude  creature  so 
disrespectfully  ignored,  but  some  persons  are 
capable  of  showing  any  lack  of  good  taste. 

The  ladies  had  an  unusual  and  most  painful 
sense  of  failure,  as  they  went  home  together 


134  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

that  evening.  "  I  have  always  made  it  my  ob- 
ject to  improve  and  interest  the  people  at  such 
times ;  it  would  seem  so  possible  to  elevate 
their  thoughts  and  direct  them  into  higher 
channels,"  said  Miss  Dobin  sadly.  "  But  as 
for  that  Woolden  woman,  there  is  no  use  in 
casting  pearls  before  swine !  " 

Miss  Lucinda  murmured  an  indignant  as- 
sent. She  had  a  secret  suspicion  that  the 
Woolden  woman  had  heard  the  story  in  ques- 
tion oftener  than  had  pleased  her.  She  was 
but  an  ignorant  creature  ;  though  she  had  lived 
in  Dulham  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  she  was  no 
better  than  when  she  came.  The  mistake  was 
in  treating  sister  Harriet  as  if  she  were  on  a 
level  with  the  rest  of  the  company.  Miss  Lu- 
cinda had  observed  more  than  once,  lately,  that 
her  sister  sometimes  repeated  herself,  uncon- 
sciously, a  little  oftener  than  was  agreeable. 
Perhaps  they  were  getting  a  trifle  dull ;  toward 
spring  it  might  be  well  to  pass  a  few  days  with 
some  of  their  friends,  and  have  a  change. 

"  If  I  have  tried  to  do  anything,"  said  Miss 
Dobin  in  an  icy  tone,  "  it  has  been  to  stand 
firm  in  my  lot  and  place,  and  to  hold  the  stan- 
dard of  cultivated  mind  and  elegant  manners 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  135 

as  high  as  possible.  You  would  think  it  had 
been  a  hundred  years  since  our  mother's  death, 
so  completely  has  the  effect  of  her  good  breed- 
ing and  exquisite  hospitality  been  lost  sight  of, 
here  in  Dulham.  I  could  wish  that  our  father 
had  chosen  to  settle  in  a  larger  and  more  ap- 
preciative place.  They  would  like  to  put  us 
on  the  shelf,  too.  I  can  see  that  plainly." 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  our  friends,"  said  Miss 
Lucinda  anxiously,  but  with  a  choking  voice. 
"  We  must  not  let  them  think  we  do  not  mean 
to  keep  up  with  the  times,  as  we  always  have. 
I  do  feel  as  if  perhaps  —  our  hair  "  — 

And  the  sad  secret  was  out  at  last.  Each 
of  the  sisters  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  at 
this  beginning  of  a  confession. 

It  was  certain  that  they  must  take  some  steps 
to  retrieve  their  lost  ascendency.  Public  at- 
tention had  that  evening  been  called  to  their 
fast-disappearing  locks,  poor  ladies  ;  and  Miss 
Lucinda  felt  the  discomfort  most,  for  she  had 
been  the  inheritor  of  the  Hightree  hair,  long 
and  curly,  and  chestnut  in  color.  There  used 
to  be  a  waviness  about  it,  and  sometimes  pretty 
escaping  curls,  but  these  were  gone  long  ago. 
•  Miss  Dobin  resembled  her  father,  and  her  hair 


136  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

had  not  been  luxuriant,  so  that  she  was  less 
changed  by  its  absence  than  one  might  sup- 
pose. The  straightness  and  thinness  had  in- 
creased so  gradually  that  neither  sister  had 
quite  accepted  the  thought  that  other  persons 
would  particularly  notice  their  altered  appear- 
ance. 

They  had  shrunk,  with  the  reticence  born  of 
close  family  association,  from  speaking  of  the 
cause  even  to  each  other,  when  they  made 
themselves  pretty  little  lace  and  dotted  muslin 
caps.  Breakfast  caps,  they  called  them,  and 
explained  that  these  were  universally  worn  in 
town  ;  the  young  Princess  of  Wales  originated 
them,  or  at  any  rate  adopted  them.  The  ladies 
offered  no  apology  for  keeping  the  breakfast 
caps  on  until  bedtime,  and  in  spite  of  them  a 
forward  child  had  just  spoken,  loud  and  shrill, 
an  untimely  question  in  the  ears  of  the  for 
once  silent  sewing  society.  "  Do  Miss  Dob- 
binses  wear  them  great  caps  because  their  bare 
heads  is  cold  ?  "  the  little  beast  had  said ;  and 
everybody  was  startled  and  dismayed. 

Miss  Dobin  had  never  shown  better  her  good 
breeding  and  valor,  the  younger  sister  thought 

"  No,  little  girl,"  replied  the  stately  Harriet^ 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  137 

with  a  chilly  smile.  "  I  helieve  that  our  head- 
dresses are  quite  in  the  fashion  for  ladies  of 
all  ages.  And  you  must  remember  that  it  is 
never  polite  to  make  such  personal  remarks.'* 
It  was  after  this  that  Miss  Dobin  had  been  re- 
minded of  Madam  Somebody's  unusual  head- 
gear at  the  evening  entertainment  in  Boston. 
Nobody  but  the  Woolden  woman  could  have 
interrupted  her  under  such  trying  circum- 
stances. 

Miss  Lucinda,  however,  was  certain  that  the 
time  had  come  for  making  some  effort  to  re- 
place her  lost  adornment.  The  child  had  told 
an  unwelcome  truth,  but  had  paved  the  way 
for  further  action,  and  now  was  the  time  to 
suggest  something  that  had  slowly  been  taking 
shape  in  Miss  Lucinda's  mind.  A  young 
grand-nephew  of  their  mother  and  his  bride 
had  passed  a  few  days  with  them,  two  or  three 
summers  before,  and  the  sisters  had  been  quite 
shocked  to  find  that  the  pretty  young  woman 
wore  a  row  of  frizzes,  not  originally  her  own, 
over  her  smooth  forehead.  At  the  time,  Miss 
Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  had  spoken  severely 
with  each  other  of  such  bad  taste,  but  now  it 
made  a  great  difference  that  the  wearer  of  the 


138  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

frizzes  was  not  only  a  relative  by  marriage  and 
used  to  good  society,  but  also  that  she  came 
from  town,  and  might  be  supposed  to  know 
what  was  proper  in  the  way  of  toilet. 

"  I  really  think,  sister,  that  we  had  better 
see  about  having  some  —  arrangements,  next 
time  we  go  anywhere,"  Miss  Dobin  said  unex- 
pectedly, with  a  slight  tremble  in  her  voice, 
just  as  they  reached  their  own  door.  "  There 
seems  to  be  quite  a  fashion  for  them  nowadays. 
For  the  parish's  sake  we  ought  to  recognize  " 
—  and  Miss  Lucinda  responded  with  instant 
satisfaction.  She  did  not  like  to  complain, 
but  she  had  been  troubled  with  neuralgic  pains 
in  her  forehead  on  suddenly  meeting  the  cold 
air.  The  sisters  felt  a  new  bond  of  sympathy 
in  keeping  this  secret  with  and  for  each  other  ; 
they  took  pains  to  say  to  several  acquaintances 
that  they  were  thinking  of  going  to  the  next 
large  town  to  do  a  few  errands  for  Christmas. 

A  bright,  sunny  morning  seemed  to  wish  the 
ladies  good-fortune.  Old  Hetty  Downs,  their 
faithful  maid-servant  and  protector,  looked 
after  them  in  affectionate  foreboding.  "  Dear 
sakes,  what  devil's  wiles  may  be  played  on 
them  blessed  innocents  afore  they  're  safe 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  139 

home  again ! "  she  murmured,  as  they  van- 
ished round  the  corner  of  the  street  that  led  to 
the  railway  station. 

Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  paced  dis- 
creetly side  by  side  down  the  main  street  of 
Westbury.  It  was  nothing  like  Boston,  of 
course,  but  the  noise  was  slightly  confusing, 
and  the  passers-by  sometimes  roughly  pushed 
against  them.  "Westbury  was  a  consequential 
manufacturing  town,  but  a  great  convenience 
at  times  like  this.  The  trifling  Christmas 
gifts  for  their  old  neighbors  and  Sunday-school 
scholars  were  purchased  and  stowed  away  in 
their  neat  Fayal  basket  before  the  serious  com- 
mission of  the  day  was  attended  to.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  shops,  disreputable  frizzes  were 
displayed  in  unblushing  effrontery,  but  no  such 
vulgar  shopkeeper  merited  the  patronage  of 
the  Misses  Dobin.  They  pretended  not  to 
observe  the  unattractive  goods,  and  went  their 
way  to  a  low,  one-storied  building  on  a  side 
street,  where  an  old  tradesman  lived.  He  had 
been  useful  to  the  minister  while  he  still  re- 
mained upon  the  earth  and  had  need  of  a  wig, 
sandy  in  hue  and  increasingly  sprinkled  with 
gray,  as  if  it  kept  pace  with  other  changes  of 


140  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

existence.  But  old  Paley's  shutters  were  up, 
and  a  bar  of  rough  wood  was  nailed  firmly 
across  the  one  that  had  lost  its  fastening  and 
would  rack  its  feeble  hinges  in  the  wind.  Old 
Paley  had  always  been  polite  and  bland ;  they 
really  had  looked  forward  to  a  little  chat  with 
him  ;  they  had  heard  a  year  or  two  before  of 
his  wife's  death,  and  meant  to  offer  sympathy. 
His  business  of  hair-dressing  had  been  carried 
on  with  that  of  parasol  and  umbrella  mending, 
and  the  condemned  umbrella  which  was  his 
sign  cracked  and  swung  in  the  rising  wind,  a 
tattered  skeleton  before  the  closed  door.  The 
ladies  sighed  and  turned  away  ;  they  were  be- 
ginning to  feel  tired ;  the  day  was  long,  and 
they  had  not  met  with  any  pleasures  yet.  "  We 
might  walk  up  the  street  a  little  farther,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Lucinda ;  "  that  is,  if  you  are  not 
tired,"  as  they  stood  hesitating  on  the  corner 
after  they  had  finished  a  short  discussion  of 
Mr.  Paley's  disappearance.  Happily  it  was 
only  a  few  minutes  before  they  came  to  a  stop 
together  in  front  of  a  new,  shining  shop,  where 
smirking  waxen  heads  all  in  a  row  were  decked 
with  the  latest  fashions  of  wigs  and  frizzes. 
One  smiling  fragment  of  a  gentleman  stared 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  141 

so  straight  at  Miss  Lucinda  with  his  black  eyes 
that  she  felt  quite  coy  and  embarrassed,  and 
was  obliged  to  feign  not  to  be  conscious  of  his 
admiration.  But  Miss  Dobin,  after  a  brief 
delay,  boldly  opened  the  door  and  entered  ;  it 
was  better  to  be  sheltered  in  the  shop  than  ex- 
posed to  public  remark  as  they  gazed  in  at  the 
windows.  Miss  Lucinda  felt  her  heart  beat 
and  her  courage  give  out;  she,  coward  like, 
left  the  transaction  of  their  business  to  her 
sister,  and  turned  to  contemplate  the  back  of 
the  handsome  model.  It  was  a  slight  shock  to 
find  that  he  was  not  so  attractive  from  this 
point  of  view.  The  wig  he  wore  was  well 
made  all  round,  but  his  shoulders  were  roughly 
finished  in  a  substance  that  looked  like  plain 
plaster  of  Paris. 

"  What  can  I  have  ze  pleasure  of  showing 
you,  young  ladees  ?  "  asked  a  person  who  ad- 
vanced ;  and  Miss  Lucinda  faced  about  to  dis- 
cover a  smiling,  middle-aged  Frenchman,  who 
rubbed  his  hands  together  and  looked  at  his 
customers,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  with 
delightful  deference.  He  seemed  a  very  civil, 
nice  person,  the  young  ladies  thought. 

"  My  sister  and  I  were  thinking  of  buying 


142  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

some  little  arrangements  to  wear  above  the 
forehead."  Miss  Dobin  explained,  with  pa- 
thetic dignity  ;  but  the  Frenchman  spared  her 
any  further  words.  He  looked  with  eager  in- 
terest at  the  bonnets,  as  if  no  lack  had  attracted 
his  notice  before.  "  Ah,  yes.  Je  comprends  ; 
ze  high  foreheads  are  not  now  ze  mode.  Je 
prefer  them,  moi,  yes,  yes,  but  ze  ladies  must 
accept  ze  fashion  ;  zay  must  now  cover  ze  fore- 
head with  ze  frizzes,  ze  bangs,  you  say.  As 
you  wis',  as  you  wis' !  "  and  the  tactful  little 
man,  with  many  shrugs  and  merry  gestures  at 
such  girlish  fancies,  pulled  down  one  box  af- 
ter another. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  find  that  this  was  no 
worse,  to  say  the  least,  than  any  other  shop- 
ping, though  the  solemnity  and  secrecy  of 
the  occasion  were  infringed  upon  by  the  great 
supply  of  "  arrangements  "  and  the  loud,  dis- 
cussion of  the  color  of  some  crimps  a  noisy  girl 
was  buying  from  a  young  saleswoman  the  other 
side  of  the  shop. 

Miss  Dobin  waved  aside  the  wares  which 
were  being  displayed  for  her  approval 
"Something  —  more  simple,  if  you  please," 
—  she  did  not  like  to  say  "  older." 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  143 

" But  these  are  tres  simple"  protested  the 
Frenchman.  "  We  have  nothing  younger  ;  " 
and  Miss  Dobin  and  Miss  Lucinda  blushed, 
and  said  no  more.  The  Frenchman  had  his 
own  way ;  he  persuaded  them  that  nothing  was 
so  suitable  as  some  conspicuous  forelocks  that 
matched  their  hair  as  it  used  to  be.  They 
would  have  given  anything  rather  than  leave 
their  breakfast  caps  at  home,  if  they  had 
known  that  their  proper  winter  bonnets  must 
come  off.  They  hardly  listened  to  the  wig 
merchant's  glib  voice  as  Miss  Dobin  stood  re- 
vealed before  the  merciless  mirror  at  the  back 
of  the  shop. 

He  made  everything  as  easy  as  possible,  the 
friendly  creature,  and  the  ladies  were  grateful 
to  him.  Beside,  now  that  the  bonnet  was  on 
again  there  was  a  great  improvement  in  Miss 
Dobin's  appearance.  She  turned  to  Miss 
Lucinda,  and  saw  a  gleam  of  delight  in  her 
eager  countenance.  "  It  really  is  very  becom- 
ing. I  like  the  way  it  parts  over  your  fore- 
head," said  the  younger  sister,  "  but  if  it  were 
long  enough  to  go  behind  the  ears  "  —  "  Non, 
uon"  entreated  the  Frenchman.  "  To  make 
her  the  old  woman  at  once  would  be  cruelty !  " 


144  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

And  Lucinda  who  was  wondering  how  well 
she  would  look  in  her  turn,  succumbed 
promptly  to  such  protestations.  Yes,  there 
was  no  use  in  being  old  before  their  time. 
Dulham  was  not  quite  keeping  pace  with  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  these  days,  but  they  need 
not  drag  behind  everybody  else,  just  because 
they  lived  there. 

The  price  of  the  little  arrangements  was 
much  less  than  the  sisters  expected,  and  the 
uncomfortable  expense  of  their  reverend  fa- 
ther's wigs  had  been,  it  was  proved,  a  thing 
of  the  past.  Miss  Dobin  treated  her  polite 
Frenchman  with  great  courtesy ;  indeed,  Miss 
Lucinda  had  more  than  once  whispered  to  her 
to  talk  French,  and  as  they  were  bowed  out  of 
the  shop  the  gracious  Bong-sure  of  the  elder 
lady  seemed  to  act  like  the  string  of  a  shower- 
bath,  and  bring  down  an  awesome  torrent  of 
foreign  words  upon  the  two  guileless  heads. 
It  was  impossible  to  reply ;  the  ladies  bowed 
again,  however,  and  Miss  Lucinda  caught  a 
last  smile  from  the  handsome  wax  countenance 
in  the  window.  He  appeared  to  regard  her 
with  fresh  approval,  and  she  departed  down 
the  street  with  mincing  steps. 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  145 

"  I  feel  as  if  anybody  might  look  at  me  now, 
sister,"  said  gentle  Miss  Lucinda.  "  I  confess, 
I  have  really  suffered  sometimes,  since  I  knew 
I  looked  so  distressed." 

"  Yours  is  lighter  than  I  thought  it  was  in 
the  shop,"  remarked  Miss  Dobin,  doubtfully, 
but  she  quickly  added  that  perhaps  it  would 
change  a  little.  She  was  so  perfectly  satisfied 
with  her  own  appearance  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  dim  the  pleasure  of  any  one  else.  The 
truth  remained  that  she  never  would  have  let 
Lucinda  choose  that  particular  arrangement  if 
she  had  seen  it  first  in  a  good  light.  And 
Lucinda  was  thinking  exactly  the  same  of  her 
companion. 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall  have  no  more  neural- 
gia," said  Miss  Dobin.  "  I  am  sorry  we  waited 
so  long,  dear,"  and  they  tripped  down  the  main 
street  of  Westbury,  confident  that  nobody 
would  suspect  them  of  being  over  thirty.  In- 
deed, they  felt  quite  girlish,  and  unconsciously 
looked  sideways  as  they  went  along,  to  see  their 
satisfying  reflections  in  the  windows.  The 
great  panes  made  excellent  mirrors,  with  not 
too  clear  or  lasting  pictures  of  these  comforted 
passers-by. 


146  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

The  Frenchman  in  the  shop  was  making 
merry  with  his  assistants.  The  two  great  fris- 
ettes  had  long  been  out  of  fashion  ;  he  had  been 
lying  in  wait  with  them  for  two  unsuspecting 
country  ladies,  who  could  be  cajoled  into  such 
a  purchase. 

"Sister,"  Miss  Lucinda  was  saying,  "you 
know  there  is  still  an  hour  to  wait  before  our 
train  goes.  Suppose  we  take  a  little  longer 
walk  down  the  other  side  of  the  way ; "  and 
they  strolled  slowly  back  again.  In  fact, 
they  nearly  missed  the  train,  naughty  girls ! 
Hetty  would  have  been  so  worried,  they  as- 
sured each  other,  but  they  reached  the  station 
just  in  time. 

"  Lutie,"  said  Miss  Dobin,  "  put  up  your 
hand  and  part  it  from  your  forehead ;  it  seems 
to  be  getting  out  of  place  a  little ; "  and  Miss 
Lucinda,  who  had  just  got  breath  enough  to 
speak,  returned  the  information  that  Miss 
Dobin's  was  almost  covering  her  eyebrows. 
They  might  have  to  trim  them  a  little  shorter; 
of  course  it  could  be  done.  The  darkness  was 
falling ;  they  had  taken  an  early  dinner  before 
they  started,  and  now  they  were  tired  and  hun- 
gry after  the  exertion  of  the  afternoon,  but  the 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  147 

spirit  of  youth  flamed  afresh  in  their  hearts, 
and  they  were  very  happy.  If  one's  heart  re- 
mains young,  it  is  a  sore  trial  to  have  the  out- 
ward appearance  entirely  at  variance.  It  was 
the  ladies'  nature  to  be  girlish,  and  they  found 
it  impossible  not  to  be  grateful  to  the  flimsy, 
ineffectual  disguise  which  seemed  to  set  them 
right  with  the  world.  The  old  conductor,  who 
had  known  them  for  many  years,  looked  hard 
at  them  as  he  took  their  tickets,  and,  being  a 
man  of  humor  and  compassion,  affected  not  to 
notice  anything  remarkable  in  their  appear- 
ance. "  You  ladies  never  mean  to  grow  old, 
like  the  rest  of  us,"  he  said  gallantly,  and  the 
sisters  fairly  quaked  with  joy. 

"  Bless  us  !  "  the  obnoxious  Mrs.  Woolden 
was  saying,  at  the  other  end  of  the  car. 
"  There  's  the  old  maid  Dobbinses,  and  they 
Ve  bought  'em  some  bangs.  I  expect  they 
wanted  to  get  thatched  in  a  little  before  real 
cold  weather ;  but  don't  they  look  just  like  a 
pair  o'  poodle  dogs." 

The  little  ladies  descended  wearily  from  the 
train.  Somehow  they  did  not  enjoy  a  day's 
shopping  as  much  as  they  used.  They  were 
certainly  much  obliged  to  Hetty  for  sending 


148  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

her  niece's  boy  to  meet  them,  with  a  lantern ; 
also  for  having  a  good  warm  supper  ready 
when  they  came  in.  Hetty  took  a  quick  look 
at  her  mistresses,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen. 
"  I  knew  somebody  would  be  foolin'  of  'em," 
she  assured  herself  angrily,  but  she  had  to 
laugh.  Their  dear,  kind  faces  were  wrinkled 
and  pale,  and  the  great  frizzes  had  lost  their 
pretty  curliness,  and  were  hanging  down,  al- 
most straight  and  very  ugly,  into  the  ladies' 
eyes.  They  could  not  tuck  them  up  under  their 
caps,  as  they  were  sure  might  be  done. 

Then  came  a  succession  of  rainy  days,  and 
nobody  visited  the  rejuvenated  household.  The 
frisettes  looked  very  bright  chestnut  by  the 
light  of  day,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Miss  Dobin  took  the  scissors  and  shortened 
Miss  Lucinda's  half  an  inch,  and  Miss  Lucinda 
returned  the  compliment  quite  secretly,  be- 
cause each  thought  her  sister's  forehead  lower 
than  her  own.  Their  dear  gray  eyebrows  were 
honestly  displayed,  as  if  it  were  the  fashion 
not  to  have  them  match  with  wigs.  Hetty  at 
last  spoke  out,  and  begged  her  mistresses,  as 
they  sat  at  breakfast,  to  let  her  take  the  frizzes 
back  and  change  them.  Her  sister's  daugh- 


THE  DULHAM  LADIES.  149 

ter  worked  in  that  very  shop,  and,  though  in 
the  work-room,  would  be  able  to  oblige  them, 
Hetty  was  sure. 

But  the  ladies  looked  at  each  other  in  pleased 
assurance,  and  then  turned  together  to  look  at 
Hetty,  who  stood  already  a  little  apprehensive 
near  the  table,  where  she  had  just  put  down 
a  plateful  of  smoking  drop-cakes.  The  good 
creature  really  began  to  look  old. 

"  They  are  worn  very  much  in  town,"  said 
Miss  Dobin.  "  We  think  it  was  quite  fortu- 
nate that  the  fashion  came  in  just  as  our  hair 
was  growing  a  trifle  thin.  I  dare  say  we  may 
choose  those  that  are  a  shade  duller  in  color 
when  these  are  a  little  past.  Oh,  we  shall  not 
want  tea  this  evening,  you  remember,  Hetty. 
I  am  glad  there  is  likely  to  be  such  a  good 
night  for  the  sewing  circle."  And  Miss  Dobin 
and  Miss  Lucinda  nodded  and  smiled. 

"  Oh,  my  sakes  alive ! "  the  troubled  hand- 
maiden groaned.  "  Going  to  the  circle,  be 
they,  to  be  snickered  at !  Well,  the  Dobbin 
girls  they  was  born,  and  the  Dobbin  girls  they 
will  remain  till  they  die ;  but  if  they  ain't  in- 
nocent Christian  babes  to  those  that  knows  'em 
well,  mark  me  down  for  an  idjit  myself !  They 


150  THE  DULHAM  LADIES. 

believe  them  front-pieces  has  set  the  clock  back 
forty  year  or  more,  but  if  they  're  pleased  to 
think  so,  let  'em  !  " 

Away  paced  the  Dulham  ladies,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  to  grace  the  parish  occasion,  and 
face  the  amused  scrutiny  of  their  neighbors. 
"  I  think  we  owe  it  to  society  to  observe  the 
fashions  of  the  day,"  said  Miss  Lucinda.  "A 
lady  cannot  afford  to  be  unattractive.  I  feel 
now  as  if  we  were  prepared  for  anything !  " 


A  BUSINESS  MAN. 


IF  a  man  chooses  a  profession  it  is,  or  ought 
to  be,  with  other  desires  than  that  of  growing 
rich.  He  may  wish  to  be  skillful  and  learned 
as  a  means  of  self-development  and  helping 
his  fellow-men,  and  if  he  is  successful  nobody 
has  a  right  to  sneer  at  him  because  he  does  not 
make  a  fortune.  But  when  most  men  enter 
a  mercantile  life  it  is  with  the  acknowledged 
purpose  of  making  money.  The  world  has  a 
right,  too,  to  look  on  with  interest  to  find 
what  they  do  with  their  money  afterward. 
Dollars  are  of  primary  consideration  to  the 
standing  of  a  business  man,  and  are  only  sec- 
ondary to  a  clergyman  or  a  doctor  —  that  is, 
when  one  judges  by  public  rather  than  private 
conditions  and  indications  of  success.  Yet  the 
money-getter  may  win  great  wealth,  and  fail 
completely  of  reaching  his  highest  value,  and 
reward,  and  satisfaction  as  a  human  being. 


152  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

People  often  said  that  there  was  something 
in  the  blood  of  the  Cravens  (their  true  name 
shall  be  a  secret)  which  hungered  for  posses- 
sion and  was  always  seeking  to  gratify  its  love 
of  acquisition.  John  Craven,  the  proud  inner* 
itor  of  a  name  already  well  known  in  business 
circles,  certainly  loved  the  thought  of  his 
thousands  and  hundred  thousands.  He  felt  a 
vast  pleasure  in  letting  his  eyes  glance  down 
the  columns  of  figures  in  his  private  account- 
book  —  a  gratified  sense  of  security  and  abun- 
dance which  none  of  the  fruits  of  his  wealth 
had  power  to  bestow.  The  fine  house  in  which 
he  lived,  his  handsome  young  children,  all 
failed  to  be  so  completely  rewarding  to  his  eye 
and  heart  as  the  special  page  or  two  where 
the  chief  items  of  his  property  were  repre- 
sented by  straight-stemmed  fours  and  ones 
and  delicately-curved  threes  and  sixes  and 
nines.  He  was  a  man  who  never  directly 
wronged  any  one,  but  who  was  determined  to 
succeed  and  to  make  money.  He  thought  lit- 
tle of  his  personal  relation  to  society,  and  still 
less  of  his  relation  to  the  next  world.  All  his 
mind  was  bent  upon  making  a  splendid  finan- 
cial success,  and  though  early  in  life  this  end 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  153 

was  gained,  he  still  went  on  planning  great 
gains  and  glories,  and  looked  upon  himself  as 
one  of  the  younger  business  men  of  his  city, 
until  long  after  he  was  a  grandfather. 

Then  the  tide  of  satisfaction  seemed  at  last 
to  turn.  One  thing  after  another  forced  him 
to  waver  and  to  hesitate  in  these  great  manip- 
ulations of  his  capital.  Mr.  Craven  was  keen 
and  quick  to  grasp  his  business  opportunities, 
but  little  things  annoyed  him,  and  he  became 
sensitive  where  once  he  had  been  indifferent. 
He  was  just  transferring  his  chief  office  and 
warehouse  to  a  noble  new  building,  when  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  became  seriously 
ill,  and  from  necessity  his  eldest  son  was  pro- 
moted temporarily  to  the  head  of  the  business. 

It  was  a  strange  surprise  when  the  family 
physician  told  him  that  he  could  no  longer  bear 
what  he  could  once ;  that  a  man  of  his  years 
must  favor  himself ;  and  finally  advised  that 
a  few  months  in  Europe  would  do  him  the 
much  needed  good.  John  Craven  was  start- 
led and  angry  at  first ;  he  had  always  looked 
forward  to  such  a  holiday,  and  had  already 
enjoyed  foreign  sights  by  proxy,  since  his  fam- 
Uy  had  crossed  the  ocean  repeatedly,  like  other 


154  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

families  of  their  social  station.  But  this 
seemed  to  mean  only  that  the  girls  v;;shed  to 
go  again,  and  at  first  he  emphatically  refused 
to  be  made  the  victim  of  such  a  conspiracy. 

When  he  visited  his  place  of  business,  how- 
ever, after  his  illness,  he  was  made  somewhat 
low  spirited.  The  new  warehouse  was  occu- 
pied now,  and  it  was  fatiguingly  large  and 
noisy.  Young  John  was  getting  on  very  well ; 
he  might  be  all  the  more  use  by  and  by  if  he 
had  the  chance  of  trying  his  hand  now.  He 
could  not  do  much  mischief,  the  elder  man 
thought,  as  he  sank  into  his  great  cushioned 
chair  with  a  little  sigh.  He  had  meant  to 
give  orders  that  his  familiar  desk  and  wooden 
armchair  should  be  brought  from  the  old 
counting-room,  but  it  was  too  late  now,  and  to 
be  sure  they  would  be  quite  out  of  place  in  all 
this  magnificence  of  plate  glass  and  mahogany. 
Yes,  Jack  was  right ;  this  new  office  was  in 
keeping  with  the  position  of  the  firm,  and  the 
senior  partner  looked  into  his  new  safe  with 
pride  and  approval,  and  complimented  his  son 
upon  the  way  he  had  managed  things.  The 
old  grandfather  who  had  trained  him  used  to 
sit  on  a  high  stool,  and  wear  a  green  baize 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  155 

jacket,  in  the  first  dingy  counting-room.  "  He 
started  us  —  he  started  us,"  said.  John  Craven 
to  himself  ;  then  he  felt  a  little  shaky  and  sat 
down  again,  saying  that  he  would  not  go 
through  the  house  until  next  day,  perhaps. 
He  had  hardly  got  back  his  strength,  but  Jack 
might  bring  the  statements.  There  were  a 
number  of  new  clerks  even  in  the  inner  office, 
and  one  had  a  crafty,  small  face.  "  I  don't 
like  that  fellow's  looks,"  he  muttered.  "  Who 
got  him  here,  I  should  like  to  know  ! "  But 
Jack  responded,  with  wounded  pride,  that  this 
was  the  smartest  book-keeper  in  New  York ; 
he  had  been  trying  to  get  him  into  their  em- 
ploy for  a  year. 

Somehow,  for  the  first  time  John  Craven  'j 
was  conscious  that  he  was  getting  to  be  old.  | 
He  grumbled  something  about  the  boys  pull- 
ing and  hauling  him  and  his  affairs,  and  wish- 
ing him  out  of  their  way.  The  pomp  of  the 
new  counting-room,  the  self-sufficiency  of  Jack, 
dazzled  and  angered  him  not  a  little.  He  had 
thought  it  indispensable  to  the  welfare  of  this 
great  business  that  he  should  not  miss  a  day 
at  his  desk,  all  through  the  busiest  times  of 
the  year,  But  here  was  the  establishment 


156  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

running  along  on  its  manifold  and  ponderous 
track,  just  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  at  the 
post  of  guidance.  Well,  not  every  man  had 
given  his  affairs  such  a  good  momentum ;  he 
had  only  followed  out  the  founder's  principles, 
too,  and  he  thought  again  of  the  sturdy  grand- 
father in  the  baize  jacket.  After  all,  it  was 
good  for  the  son  and  successor;  he  would 
stand  well  in  the  row  of  John  Cravens.  Jack 
was  married  and  settled.  He  had  as  hand- 
some a  house  as  his  father's,  a  block  higher  up 
the  avenue.  The  rascal  had  even  grown  a 
little  patronizing  of  late,  but  John  Craven, 
the  elder,  had  no  intention  of  being  called  an 
old  man  yet. 

There  were  some  questions  to  ask  about  the 
real  estate  investments  that  day,  but  Jack 
could  not  answer  for  these.  Walter  had  been 
looking  after  that  part  of  the  property,  and 
Walter  was  out  of  town.  "  So  they  had  di- 
vided the  responsibility  between  them,  had 
they  ?  "  the  father  grumbled  ;  but  Jack  brought 
a  great  handful  of  cheques  and  papers  to  be 
signed,  and  the  two  men  lunched  and  joked 
together.  The  firm  was  already  larger  than 
the  senior  partner  approved.  It  was  no  use 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  157 

to  talk  about  adding  another  member.  But 
Jack  took  advantage  of  his  father's  smiles  to 
suggest  the  admission  of  a  brother-in-law,  the 
husband  of  the  youngest  daughter.  "  I  '11 
think  it  over,"  replied  the  chief,  turning  to 
look  for  his  penholder.  "No,  his  capital  is 
no  inducement.  We  're  carrying  sail  enough 
for  the  present,  unless  times  change  for  the 
better." 

Jack  went  back  to  his  own  desk  a  little  an- 
noyed. He  did  not  like  to  give  up  his  author- 
ity. Was  it  only  a  month  since  the  old  gentle- 
man had  been  away  ?  It  seemed  like  a  year. 


II. 

John  Craven  took  the  doctor's  advice,  after 
all,  and  went  to  Europe.  He  had  felt  strangely 
weak  and  unequal  to  much  effort  ever  since  his 
illness,  and  he  grasped  at  the  promised  re- 
newal of  his  health.  There  was  great  satisfac- 
tion at  meeting  some  of  his  old  correspondents 
on  the  other  side  ;  he  wholly  enjoyed  his  jour- 
neyings,  and  was  satisfied  with  the  careful  re- 
ports from  home.  He  was  proud,  too,  of  some 


158  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

new  outlooks  and  connections  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  forming.  "  In  a  business  way,"  he 
was  fond  of  saying  to  his  wife,  "  the  time  had 
been  well  spent."  But  Mrs.  Craven  lost  no 
chance  of  urging  her  husband  to  give  up  the 
business  to  the  boys.  He  had  overworked  him- 
self, she  pleaded  over  and  over  again,  it  was 
no  use  to  break  down  his  health  altogether.  He 
knew  very  well  now  that  he  could  not  bear  what 
he  could  once.  The  truth  was,  the  ways  of  do- 
ing business  were  changing  —  these  submarine 
telegraphs  were  doing  as  much  harm  as  good. 
The  time  had  gone  by  when  a  man  could  get 
private  advices  of  a  rise  in  values,  and  quickly 
increase  his  stock  to  control  the  market.  Now, 
what  one  knew  the  rest  knew,  and  it  was  simply 
a  question  of  who  could  sell  cheapest.  John 
Craven  talked  it  over  again  and  again  with 
idling  merchants  like  himself. 

Not  long  after  their  return  the  great  sorrow 
of  his  life  came  to  him  in  his  wife's  death.  It 
was  harder  to  bear  the  loss  then  than  it  ever 
could  have  been  before,  They  had  loved  each 
other  with  a  sober,  undemonstrative  affection, 
which  was  as  permanent  and  unquestioned  as 
the  air  they  breathed.  In  the  earlier  years, 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  159 

while  he  was  immersed,  as  he  often  said,  in 
business  cares,  and  the  good  woman  was  careful 
and  troubled  about  many  things,  —  her  grow- 
ing children,  her  household,  and  her  social  rela- 
tions, —  they  had  gone  their  separate  ways 
without  much  reference  to  each  other,  satisfied 
with  a  mutual  confidence  and  inspiration.  For 
the  first  time  in  these  later  months  they  had 
sometimes  spent  all  the  hours  of  the  days  to- 
gether, and  had  been  more  lover-like  and  affec- 
tionate than  ever  before.  They  sometimes 
talked  in  the  long  twilights  of  the  English 
lakes  or  the  soft  sunshine  of  Italy  about  what 
they  would  do  together  when  they  reached 
home  ;  and  John  Craven  felt  less  annoyance  at 
the  thought  of  his  boys'  business  capacity.  He 
would  have  more  time  at  home  than  ever  be- 
fore; he  even  grew  interested  in  his  wife's 
small  charitable  enterprises,  and  lent  a  willing 
ear  to  her  confidences,  and  knew  at  last  what 
good  his  generous  cheques  had  done  in  pub- 
lic and  private  needs.  He  had  never  found 
time  to  think  much  of  these  things.  But  alas, 
good  Mrs.  Craven  died  after  a  short  illness, 
within  a  week  or  two  of  their  arrival  home, 
and  the  great  house  with  its  unpacked  treas- 


160  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

ures,  which  they  had  chosen  together,  was  left 
desolate. 

It  was  harder  than  ever  for  this  business 
man  to  assure  himself  that  a  man  need  not  be 
old  at  his  age  ;  but  somehow  he  had  let  go  his 
active  oversight  of  affairs,  while  he  could  sum- 
mon no  interest  to  fill  the  place  of  that  to  which 
he  had  given  all  his  time  and  thought.  He 
cared  nothing  for  books  or  for  art,  or,  saddest 
of  all,  his  fashionable  daughter  thought,  for 
society.  He  had  given  away  much  money  be- 
cause others  expected  it,  but  he  had  never 
given  himself  with  his  dollars.  He  was  some- 
times angry  with  the  boys,  and  sometimes 
thankful  to  give  up  his  responsibility,  but  he 
wished  such  relinquishment  to  be  voluntary ; 
it  should  not  be  taken  for  granted.  His  daugh- 
ters were  eager  to  have  their  share  of  his  favor ; 
they  came  to  him  with  stories  of  the  boys'  as- 
sumption of  authority  and  precedence.  They 
were  all  dependent  upon  him  in  one  way  or  an- 
other, and  John  Craven  told  himself  more  than 
once  that  he  should  like  to  see  one  of  the  crowd 
who  had  made  his  own  way  in  the  world.  They 
were  all  respectful  and  affectionate.  The  girls 
told  him  again  and  again  that  they  were  so 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  161 

glad  that  their  husbands  were  able  to  relieve 
him  of  care,  and  were  men  he  could  trust.  Yes, 
he  surely  had  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for  ; 
it  seemed  to  be  nobody's  fault  that  he  was  laid 
on  the  shelf.  Jack  was  sometimes  overbearing 
and  self-confident  about  the  business.  It  was 
amazing  that  he  himself,  who  had  been  counted 
one  of  the  most  daring,  far-sighted,  and  enter- 
prising men  of  his  day,  should  be  constantly 
made  to  feel  that  he  was  an  old  fogy  and  fast 
drifting  astern  of  the  times.  Who  should  un- 
derstand the  times  if  not  a  man  of  his  experi- 
ence ?  As  the  long  months  went  by,  the  days 
when  he  did  not  go  to  his  office  were  of  more 
and  more  frequent  occurrence.  The  chief  value 
of  his  presence  seemed  to  be  for  the  subscrip- 
tion lists,  which  by  no  means  passed  him  by, 
and  one  day  there  was  a  vehement  outbreak  of 
anger  against  young  Jack,  who  had  ventured 
to  suggest  the  propriety  of  a  smaller  sum  than 
his  father  had  seen  fit  to  bestow.  "  You  may 
be  making  money,  but  whose  money  are  you 
making  it  with,"  the  old  man  demanded,  while 
Jack  spoke  soothingly  and  glanced  round  at 
the  other  desks.  He  did  not  look  as  if  he 
would  like  to  knock  his  father  down,  as  he 


162  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

used  in  case  of  differences  when  they  both  were 
younger,  and  the  senior  partner  was  injured  by 
this  slighting  of  their  present  equality.  "  You 
treat  me  as  if  I  were  an  old  woman,"  he  said, 
and  went  away.  Jack  was  such  an  insufferable 
prig,  and  there  was  Jack's  boy,  who  ought  to 
be  at  a  desk,  already  parading  about  the  park 
with  his  dog  cart  and  saddle-horses  —  a  good- 
for-nothing  dandy.  Times  had  changed  in- 
deed! 

m. 

When  Mr.  Craven  did  not  go  down  town  in 
the  morning  he  sometimes  took  his  stick  and 
walked  eastward  along  the  street  that  made  a 
right  angle  with  the  avenue  nearest  his  house. 
He  did  not  like  to  meet  his  acquaintances, 
even  ladies,  in  business  hours,  but  he  found  it 
amusing  to  watch  the  progress  of  some  build- 
ings not  a  great  distance  away.  The  contrast 
between  this  district  and  the  region  of  his  own 
home  was  very  striking,  though  he  found  him- 
self by  no  means  in  the  most  squalid  portion 
of  his  native  city.  On  the  contrary,  there  was 
even  a  sort  of  thriftiness.  John  Craven  had 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  163 

more  than  once  complimented  the  good  land- 
lord, whoever  he  might  be,  of  one  long  row  of 
small  brick  houses.  The  occupants  were  evi- 
dently people  of  small  means,  but  most  re- 
spectable and  orderly,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
block  was  a  shop  or  two  —  a  druggist's,  and  a 
gay  little  place  which  held  out  inducements  to 
womankind,  of  thread  and  needles,  neckties, 
and  even  letter-paper  and  calico  prints.  "  Good 
thing,  good  thing,"  the  rich  ex-merchant  would 
say  approvingly,  "  if  only  the  women  don't 
waste  their  time,  and  travel  way  down  to  Stew- 
art's for  every  spool  of  cotton." 

It  happened  that  John  Craven  walked  slowly 
by  one  morning  just  as  the  owner  of  this  place 
of  business  was  opening  his  shutters.  He  was 
a  bright-faced  young  man  of  two  or  three  and 
twenty,  and  the  elderly  gentleman  hesitated, 
then  stopped  and  said  good- morning. 

The  young  man  looked  around  cheerfully. 
"  Good-day,  sir,"  he  answered  ;  "  can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  in  my  line  ?  "  And  Mr.  Craven 
smiled  benignantly,  without  committing  him- 
self to  any  definite  reply.  "  You  are  on  time, 
I  see,"  he  said  presently,  tapping  the  pave- 
ment with  his  cane  as  the  proprietor  fastened 


164  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

the  shutter  back  with  a  sufficient  snap.  There 
was  only  one  window  to  the  little  store,  but  its 
contents  were  most  alluringly  arranged.  "  Yes, 
sir,  time 's  money,"  answered  the  admiring 
owner  of  the  trifling  wares.  "  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  you  step  inside,"  and  with  a  glance 
along  the  street  toward  the  avenue,  Mr.  Craven 
accepted  the  invitation.  It  was  still  early  in 
the  morning,  he  had  not  been  sleeping  well  of 
late,  and  his  luxurious  household  was  hardly 
astir.  His  eldest  daughter  had  come  home 
with  her  family  to  keep  the  house  for  him  after 
her  mother's  death.  Her  husband  was  the  least 
prosperous  of  the  sons  or  sons-in-law,  and  to 
tell  the  truth  John  Craven  was  not  at  all  fond 
of  him,  and  never  had  been. 

There  was  something  delightfully  cordial 
and  sincere  in  the  younger  merchant's  hospi- 
tality. At  any  rate  it  was  stronger  than  his 
guest's  reasons  for  not  accepting  it,  and  Mr. 
Craven  bowed  gravely  and  went  in  at  the  door. 
He  took  no  notice  of  anything  in  particular. 
The  cheap  goods  did  not  invite  his  attention 
in  detail,  but  he  seated  himself  on  one  of  the 
two  light  stools  which  were  provided  for  the 
comfort  of  possible  customers,  and  asked,  look- 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  165 

ing  about  him  in  an  interested  way,  how  long 
the  business  had  been  established. 

"  Only  a  month  or  two,"  answered  the  young 
man,  and  a  boyish  color  spread  quickly  over 
his  face.  "  I  hope  there  's  a  good  chance  here ! 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  do  well.  I  seem 
to  have  the  good-will  of  the  neighborhood,  so 
far.  There  are  some  dressmakers  near  by 
who  do  a  pile  of  work :  one  of  them  does 
stitching  and  finishing  for  Madame  Blanc,  and 
has  all  she  can  carry.  I  fill  any  orders,  you 
know,  for  goods  I  don't  carry  in  stock.  I  hope 
I  shall  do  well  here,  and  I  don't  mind  saying 
I  shall  sell  out  the  business  when  it  gets  to  be 
worth  anything,  and  strike  for  something  bet- 
ter. I  wish  I  was  a  little  nearer  the  avenue. 
I  know  a  fellow  who  keeps  a  first-rate  class  of 
goods  up  in  Thirtieth  Street  that 's  getting 
rich.  You  see  the  seamstresses  in  some  of  the 
big  houses  give  him  all  their  trade,  and  about 
keep  him  going." 

Mr.  Craven  returned  the  hopeful  smile  of 
his  entertainer,  and  slowly  unfastened  his  over- 
coat. He  felt  a  little  tired  and  lonely  that 
morning,  and  did  not  wear  the  look  of  a  pros- 
perous man.  The  coat  itself  was  a  comfort- 


166  A   BUSINESS  MAN. 

able  old  one  he  had  insisted  upon  keeping 
when  his  daughter  had  suggested  the  presenta- 
tion of  it  to  a  deserving  German  mother  to 
make  over  for  her  children.  Somehow  Mr. 
Craven  liked  to  wear  it  in  these  morning  walks 
away  from  the  avenue.  The  buttons  were 
loose,  and  one  of  them  actually  came  off  at  this 
moment  and  rolled  behind  some  boxes  that 
were  piled  at  the  end  of  the  counter.  William 
Chellis  the  shopkeeper  looked  after  it,  but 
some  instinct  that  he  could  hardly  explain  led 
him  to  ignore  the  trivial  accident.  The  old 
gentleman  looked  as  if  he  had  seen  better  days. 
The  button-holes  of  the  coat  were  frayed,  and 
a  bit  of  the  lining  was  hanging.  Chellis  had 
often  seen  the  old  fellow  go  by  about  this  time 
in  the  morning,  stopping  once  in  a  while  to 
speak  to  some  children,  or  to  exchange  greet- 
ings with  the  bricklayers  who  were  .tending 
the  great  mortar-box  in  front  of  the  new  block. 
They  talked  together  for  a  few  minutes  in  a 
friendly  way.  Chellis  was  arranging  his  wares, 
and  when  the  visitor  rose  to  go  he  darted  for- 
ward to  open  the  door  for  him.  "  I  should  be 
pleased  to  have  you  drop  in  any  time,  sir,"  he 
said,  with  pleasant  deference.  "  I  hope  you  '11 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  167 

remember  to  mention  the  store  if  you  have 
any  ladies  at  home.  My  goods  are  mostly  in 
their  line." 

"  Do  you  keep  pins?  "  asked  Mr.  Craven, 
turning  back  with  evident  pleasure,  to  make 
an  investment  in  four  papers.  He  could  find 
somebody  to  give  them  to,  and  there  was  a 
satisfaction  in  putting  the  little  package  in  his 
pocket.  He  was  used  to  writing  cheques  for 
his  purchases,  and  was  a  little  uncertain,  as  he 
took  some  change  from  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
about  the  state  of  his  present  finances. 

"  There  never  is  much  doing  this  time  in  the 
morning,"  explained  the  proprietor.  "  My  cus- 
tomers either  come  toward  night,  or  run  over 
here  at  noon  time.  I  ought  to  have  somebody 
to  help  me,  for  I  shut  up  now  when  I  go  down 
town  to  fill  my  orders.  I  want  to  get  on  as 
cheap  as  I  can,  though,  for  the  present.  All 
great  things  must  have  a  beginning,"  he  added 
as  he  opened  the  door  the  second  time.  There 
was  something  delightfully  fresh  and  energetic 
about  the  young  man.  John  Craven  sighed  to 
remember  that  there  was  a  time  when  his  own 
future  lay  all  before  him.  The  winter  wind 
had  risen  and  was  whirling  the  dust  and  bits 


168  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

of  paper  along  the  bare  pavement,  and  as  he 
went  away  toward  the  avenue,  he  had  to  stop 
more  than  once  and  turn  his  back  to  the  un- 
wholesome gale.  He  happened  to  be  just  op- 
posite a  window  at  one  time,  where  a  sweet- 
faced  young  girl  sat  sewing  busily.  There  were 
some  half -finished  garments  on  the  table  beside 
her  ;  a  very  pretty  girl  she  was,  and  she  looked 
frankly  up  at  the  elderly  man,  and  even  gave 
him  a  bright  smile  of  unconscious  sympathy 
and  friendliness. 

The  whole  day  afterward,  while  the  wind 
blew  and  the  weather  was  cold,  and  a  few  flakes 
of  snow  clicked  against  the  windows,  John 
Craven  sat  by  the  library  fire  trying  to  read 
newspapers  and  dozing  and  meditating  by 
turns.  He  tried  once  or  twice  to  allure  his 
younger  grandchildren  down  to  keep  him  com- 
pany, but  they  were  needed  up-stairs  to  prac- 
tice for  a  famous  fancy  ball  in  aid  of  some  chil- 
dren's hospital.  They  were  to  have  fine  cos- 
tumes and  be  prominent  in  the  dances,  and 
could  only  chatter  to  him  of  these  things  if 
they  stayed.  Their  mother  had  rebuked  him 
for  staying  out  of  doors  so  long  on  a  chilly 
morning.  He  was  late  to  breakfast,  and  she 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  169 

reproached  him  for  making  her  uneasy.  He 
might  have  a  fall  any  day,  or  be  knocked  over 
by  the  passing  carts. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  my  liberty,"  the  old 
man  answered,  with  more  severity  than  was 
usual  with  him.  He  did  not  feel  so  old  as 
other  people  seemed  to  consider  him  —  life  was 
not  very  amusing  of  late.  But  certainly  he 
was  much  interested  in  his  new  acquaintance 
of  the  side  street.  "  I  '11  watch  that  lad,"  Mr. 
Craven  assured  himself,  "  and  by  and  by,  if 
he  does  well,  I  '11  let  him  have  some  capital." 
While,  with  rare  sentiment,  he  also  wondered 
if  the  nice  girl  who  sewed  by  the  window  and 
the  brisk  young  merchant  were  aware  of  each 
other's  existence. 

The  question  was  answered  no  later  than 
the  next  morning  but  one.  Between  the  two 
interviews  a  serious  trial  came  to  our  hero. 
He  had  been  vastly  punctual  at  the  fortnightly 
meetings  of  a  certain  notable  company,  of 
which  he  had  been  chief  originator,  and  had 
clung  more  and  more  of  late  to  this  one  of  the 
last  of  his  active  business  duties.  He  felt  un- 
usually clear  and  capable  as  he  entered  the 
directors'  room,  but  being  early  he  was  adroit- 


170  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

ly  tendered  a  suggestion  that  he  should  resign 
his  place  on  the  board  in  favor  of  his  son  Jack. 
He  could  find  no  fault  with  the  delicate  man- 
ner in  which  this  suggestion  was  made.  There 
was  a  troublesome,  decrepit  old  fellow,  who 
had  been  in  the  way  for  half  a  dozen  years, 
and  it  was  proposed  that  the  two  senior  direc- 
tors should  be  put  on  a  sort  of  retired  list.  The 
friend  who  spoke  alluded  to  the  annoyance 
Mr.  Craven  must  receive  from  his  feeling  of 
obligation  to  attend  the  meetings  now  that  he 
had  shaken  off  so  entirely  the  cares  of  business. 
He  held  so  large  an  interest  in  the  property 
that  it  would  not  have  done  to  remove  him 
from  a  part  in  its  active  control,  except 
through  his  own  agency,  and  John  Craven, 
who  was  a  proud  man,  told  himself  with  a  flash 
of  anger  that  this  was  some  of  Jack's  doings, 
and  quietly  acquiesced.  "  They  knock  the  old 
folks  on  the  head  in  the  South  Sea  Islands," 
he  grumbled  next  day,  when  he  saw  a  too 
prompt  series  of  resolutions  on  his  retirement 
included  in  the  financial  report  of  his  com- 
pany. He  wondered  if  his  wife  knew  how 
lonely  he  was,  and  counted  up  with  surprise 
the  months  since  she  had  been  taken  away 
from  him. 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  171 

The  morning  afterward  was  clear  and  spring- 
like, and  he  went  out  earlier  than  usual.  The 
pleasant  weather  was  in  itself  a  comfort,  and 
he  found  himself  taking  quicker  steps  than 
usual  toward  the  little  store.  It  was  already 
open,  and  there  was  a  customer  who  turned  a 
not  unfamiliar  face  toward  the  door  as  Mr. 
Craven  opened  it.  The  two  young  people 
were  talking  eagerly,  and  both  blushed  a  little 
in  a  pretty,  conscious  way,  and  said  good- 
morning,  as  if  the  new-comer  were  an  old 
friend.  "  This  is  a  pleasanter  day  than  when 
I  had  to  come  to  a  halt  next  your  window," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  gallantly.  He  had 
been  hurrying,  and  was  glad  to  accept  the  seat 
which  the  younger  man  pushed  toward  him. 

"  There  were  a  few  little  things  I  thought 
they  could  make  use  of  at  the  house,"  said  Mr. 
Craven  presently,  to  explain  his  appearance  — 
but  he  did  not  look  about  for  the  necessary 
goods.  "  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  "  he  asked, 
in  a  benevolent  and  paternal  fashion,  and  they 
turned  to  acquaint  this  friendly  stranger  with 
an  assurance  of  their  excellent  prospects* 
Evidently  the  young  people  had  a  very  partic- 
ular interest  in  each  other,  and  Mr.  Craven 


172  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

became  sure  that  their  marriage  depended 
upon  young  Chellis's  future  income.  There 
was  a  debt  of  a  few  hundred  dollars  on  the 
stock ;  it  had  been  a  tremendous  venture  for 
the  fellow,  and  the  wise  old  business  man 
shook  his  head,  as  he  was  made  to  understand 
the  position  of  affairs.  "If  you  could  only 
pay  off  those  accounts  now,"  he  said  soberly, 
"  so  that  you  could  be  handling  for  yourself 
the  money  that  is  coming  in."  And  young 
Chellis  looked  wistful  and  determined  as  he 
nodded  his  head  in  assent. 

There  was  a  painful  silence  of  a  moment  or 
two  which  Chellis  himself  broke.  "  You  lost 
a  button  off  your  coat  when  you  were  in  day 
before  yesterday  morning,  sir.  I  found  it  after- 
ward and  laid  it  by.  Miss  Brooks  has  got  a 
needle  with  her  now,  I  dare  say,  and  she  '11 
sew  it  on  for  you  if  you  will  let  her ;  "  and 
John  Craven  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other 
with  pleased  surprise.  He  would  have  been 
amused  if  he  had  known  that  they  had  talked 
about  him  several  times,  and  had  made  up 
their  minds  that  he  was  a  bachelor  who  boarded 
somewhere  in  that  region  —  a  man  who  had 
seen  better  days,  and  was  now  poor  and  friend- 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  173 

less.  Miss  Brooks  had  ventured  to  wish  that 
he  might  have  a  little  money  which  he  would 
like  to  put  into  such  a  thriving  and  rising  busi- 
ness venture  as  her  lover's.  But  the  lover  had 
replied  with  deeper  wisdom  that  the  elderly 
stranger  did  not  wear  the  look  of  a  prosper- 
ous man.  Poor  John  Craven,  with  his  houses 
and  lands,  his  blocks  of  buildings,  and  his  in- 
terest in  a  line  of  steamers,  his  manufactories, 
and  his  mortgages,  and  bank  stocks,  and  rail- 
road stocks,  and  his  luxurious  children,  whom 
he  had  housed  in  palaces!  He  felt  poorer, 
after  all,  than  these  young  creatures,  who  still 
had  their  fortunes  to  make,  and  whose  best 
capital  was  their  love  for  each  other. 

But  in  the  last  few  dragging  years  nothing 
had  given  him  such  a  hearty  pleasure  as  his 
new  interest  in  this  little  enterprise  of  the  fancy 
goods  store  on  East  Number  Street.  His  cau- 
tious business  instinct  made  him  very  careful 
to  know  his  ground.  Then  one  day,  to  young 
Chellis's  great  delight,  when  he  was  beginning 
to  fear  his  creditors  and  look  older  and  more 
troubled  than  usual,  the  kindly  guest  counted 
out  a  sum  of  money  as  if  it  were  all  he  had  in 
the  world,  and  begged  to  go  into  partnership, 


174  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

waiving  all  formalities.  The  two  men  sat 
down  together  as  if  they  were  alike  twenty-two, 
and  embarked  upon  courageous  plans  for  future 
gains.  Sometimes  of  late,  Mr.  Craven  —  who 
let  himself  be  called  Mr.  Brown,  though  his 
honest  heart  revolted  from  the  deception  — 
postponed  his  visit  until  after  the  late  break- 
fast and  spent  as  much  of  the  day  as  he  chose 
with  his  new  friend.  What  sagacity  of  advice 
the  old  merchant  imparted  to  the  new  one  time 
would  fail  for  describing.  Chellis  had  long 
ago  made  up  his  mind  that  his  benefactor 
must  have  had  an  unusual  business  career  and 
been  wrecked  in  some  great  financial  crisis. 

The  situation  was  not  without  its  dangers. 
Even  the  walk  along  East  Number  Street  was 
beset  with  fears,  and  John  Craven  varied  his 
line  of  approach  from  day  to  day.  Once  he 
beheld  with  dismay  the  entrance  of  one  of  his 
own  housemaids  upon  his  new  place  of  busi- 
ness, as  he  stood  behind  the  high  desk  casting 
up  a  column  of  figures.  Luckily  there  was  an 
inner  room,  to  which  he  stealthily  retreated 
with  beating  heart,  and  listened  there  to  the 
loud,  unmannerly  tones  of  the  woman  who  was 
at  home  a  most  soft-spoken  and  servile  crea- 
ture. But  this  accident  did  not  happen  again, 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  175 

and  he  felt  more  and  more  secure  in  the  com- 
panionship of  his  young  partner.  It  was  sur- 
prising how  his  youthful  zest  and  ambition 
seemed,  for  a  time,  to  return  ;  how  pleased  he 
was  when  an  uncommonly  good  day's  trade 
was  reported.  He  shook  his  head  when  the 
young  folks  asked  him  to  come  to  their  wed- 
ding, but  he  slipped  as  large  a  bill  as  he  dared 
into  the  bride's  work-roughened  little  hand 
and  stole  away  toward  his  own  house.  It  had 
made  him  desolate  to  see  the  rooms  the  lov- 
ers were  to  live  in.  They  had  asked  their  ben- 
efactor to  visit  their  new  home  in  such  a  way 
that  he  could  not  refuse,  and  they  told  him 
they  never  could  have  got  on  so  well  without 
his  help.  Little  Miss  Brooks  was  not  going 
to  give  up  her  sewing  at  present.  She  would 
take  care  of  their  tiny  housekeeping  and  earn 
all  she  could  in  the  spare  time,  just  as  she  had 
always  done.  They  did  not  seem  like  city 
people  at  all;  they  had  the  simple  ways  of 
country  folks.  And  John  Craven  thought  of 
them  with  deep  affection  as  he  sat  at  the  head 
of  his  glittering  dinner-table  that  night,  and 
lifted  a  glass  of  his  best  wine  in  a  shaking 
hand  to  drink  secretly  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William 
Chellis's  health  and  prosperity. 


176  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

At  last  there  came  a  time,  late  one  spring, 
when  the  old  business  man  seemed  much  fee- 
bler than  he  had  ever  before.  He  hardly  ever 
went  down  to  the  great  office  now,  and  was 
even  glad  when  the  rare  expedition  was  safely 
over  with.  Once  or  twice  he  took  his  seat  at 
some  assembly,  but  he  was  an  inefficient  figure- 
head, and  was  more  annoyed  than  otherwise 
with  the  empty  show  of  deference  from  his  in- 
feriors in  office.  Every  day  when  it  was  pos- 
sible, however,  he  paid  an  early  visit  to  his 
young  friends  in  East  Number  Street,  and  on 
many  a  morning  when  there  were  few  custom- 
ers coming  in,  he  gave  the  ambitious  proprie- 
tor warnings  and  suggestions.  There  was  a 
young  boy  added  to  the  force  of  this  mercan- 
tile experiment,  a  lad  from  Vermont,  whose 
bright  face  seemed  to  please  the  old  gentle- 
man, and  on  one  of  the  last  visits  Chellis  sent 
him  home  with  Mr.  Craven.  It  caused  a  good 
deal  of  curiosity  and  interest  when  the  adven- 
ture was  recounted,  for  he  had  helped  the  infirm 
guest  up  the  high  steps  of  one  of  the  best  ave- 
nue houses.  But  the  morning  calls  were  nearly 
done.  Mr.  Craven  only  appeared  once  more, 
and  then  when  the  owner  of  the  little  shop  had 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  177 

gone  down  town.  He  and  his  young  wife 
talked  a  great  deal  that  night  about  their  ben- 
efactor. "  He  's  been  the  making  of  me,"  said 
Chellis  to  himself,  sadly,  as  the  days  went  by 
after  that  and  his  friend  did  not  come  again. 

For  a  long  time  Mr.  Craven's  daughter  had 
said  proudly  that  her  father  was  able  to  take 
an  hour  or  two's  walk  early  every  morning ;  in 
these  late  spring  days  she  had  complained  fret- 
fully that  he  used  up  all  his  strength  in  doing 
so  much,  and  that  he  was  fit  for  nothing  all  the 
rest  of  the  day.  At  length  John  Craven  was 
taken  away  to  his  country  place,  and  before  the 
summer  was  over  he  died.  The  poor  rich  man 
had  almost  ceased  to  care  anything  for  even 
the  dolls'  shopkeeping,  as  he  had  often  fondly 
called  it,  though  he  was  still  grateful  for  the 
pleasure  that  came  to  him  as  he  dreamed  of 
and  planned  for  the  future  fortune  of  the  hap- 
py young  people  in  East  Number  Street. 

His  will  was  made  some  months  before,  and 
was  as  just  to  his  own  family  and  to  public  needs 
as  all  his  dealings  had  been.  There  was  one 
codicil  which  surprised  his  family  entirely, — he 
left  five  thousand  dollars  to  one  William  Chel- 
lis, in  East  Number  Street,  and  among  the 


178  A  BUSINESS  MAN. 

latest  of  his  private  papers  was  a  note  to  this 
legatee  written  in  a  trembling  hand,  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  his  former  clear  signa- 
tures. 

"  I  have  left  something  for  you  as  a  remenis 
brance,"  Mr.  Craven  said.  "  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  will  make  your  way  in  the  world  by 
its  help  and  your  own  exertions,  and  I  owe  you 
something  for  your  kindness  and  respect  to  an 
old  man.  Remember  that  getting  money  may 
make  you  poor  as  it  has  me,  and  can  leave  you 
at  last  a  beggar  for  a  little  friendliness,  and 
sympathy,  and  occupation.  There  are  other 
things  which  a  man  needs  beside  wealth  to 
make  him  happy.  I  am  your  grateful  friend, 
"JOHN  CRAVEN." 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  strangely  dimmed 
as  he  read.  "  Good  heavens  !  "  he  said,  awed 
and  astonished.  "  I  used  to  think  sometimes 
that  he  was  n't  the  broken-down  old  fellow  we 
took  him  for  at  first ;  but  there  he  was  all  the 
time,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  city  !  How 
pleased  he  used  to  be  some  days  to  help  be- 
hind the  counter  when  two  or  three  customers 


A  BUSINESS  MAN.  179 

came  in  together.  So  that  was  old  John 
Craven !  " 

"  Perhaps  our  place  made  him  think  of  old 
times,  when  he  was  just  beginning,  himself," 
hopefully  answered  the  little  wife.  "  I  remem- 
ber the  first  time  I  saw  him,  one  windy  morn- 
ing when  the  dust  blew  in  his  face  and  he  turned 
round  and  looked  right  in  at  the  window.  He 
made  me  feel  real  bad,  he  looked  so  lonesome 
and  wishful.  I  never  thought  he  was  going  to 
give  us  such  a  lot  of  money." 

"  He  's  given  me  something  better  than  that, 
too,"  said  young  Chellis,  solemnly ;  and  when 
the  woman  beside  him  looked  up  to  ask  what 
he  meant,  he  only  kissed  her  and  went  away. 
There  were  truly  many  gains  to  be  had  in  the 
world  beside  money,  even  if  one's  heart  was 
set  upon  being,  first  of  all,  A  Business  Man. 


MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

THE  two  sisters  —  the  old  Miss  Deans,  as 
people  had  begun  to  call  them  —  had  always 
lived  together,  and  what  had  happened  to  one 
happened  to  the  other.  They  often  said  that 
what  one  knew  the  other  knew  ;  and  since  they 
had  spent  their  years  very  quietly,  the  things 
that  each  sister  thought  best  worth  saying  had 
been  said  many  times  over.  For  all  this,  they 
were  as  different  as  they  could  be.  Mary 
was  Mary-like  —  a  little  too  easy  and  loving- 
hearted  ;  and  Martha  was  Martha-like  —  a  lit- 
tle too  impatient  with  foolish  folks,  and  for- 
getting to  be  affectionate  while  she  tried  to  be 
what  she  called  just.  Sometimes  she  thought 
her  younger  sister  visionary  and  sentimental ; 
for  Martha  was,  before  all  things,  practical 
and  straightforward,  and  there  lurked  a  little 
pride  in  her  heart  because  she  did  not  see  how 
Mary  could  get  on  without  her  own  forethought 
and  provision  for  their  needs. 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  181 

The  two  sisters  were  very  much  respected  in 
the  village  where  they  lived.  They  sewed  for 
their  living;  they  were  tailoresses  by  trade, 
and  though  they  did  not  make  so  many  suits 
of  clothes  since  their  neighbors  found  the 
ready-made  clothing  shops  so  cheap  and  con- 
venient, they  made  little  boys'  first  suits  and 
stray  jackets  and  trousers  whenever  they  could. 
They  mended  them,  too,  for  one  or  two  busy 
neighbors  who  could  afford  to  pay  them.  You 
might  hear  it  said  twenty  times  a  year,  "  How 
should  we  ever  get  along  without  Mary  and 
Martha  Dean  !  "  And  more  than  once  it  had 
been  questioned  who  could  take  their  places  if 
anything  happened  to  the  good  women.  Mar- 
tha was  usually  strong  and  vigorous,  short  and 
thick-set  in  appearance,  and  a  little  given  to 
bustling  if  anything  particular  were  going  on. 
She  was  an  excellent  hand  to  make  over  a 
carpet ;  she  was  an  extremely  judicious  and 
sensible  person.  It  was  Martha  who  had  been 
called  upon  to  go  and  keep  house  for  her 
townspeople  when  they  went  away.  But  more 
than  one  neighbor  had  dearly  liked  to  have 
Mary  Dean  in  the  sick-room,  she  was  so  gentle 
and  quiet,  and  did  not  insist  upon  doing  some- 


182  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

thing  when  there  was  nothing  to  do,  as  hei 
good,  anxious,  willing  sister  did  once  in  a  while. 
Yet  everybody  called  Martha  a  splendid  nurse ; 
she  was  so  capable,  they  said ;  and  most  people 
liked  to  hear  her  talk  to  the  sick,  and  tell  them 
they  were  nervous  and  notional,  and  there 
was  n't  anything  great  the  matter  with  them, 
and  she  had  seen  folks  twice  as  bad  off.  There 
was  no  gainsaying  the  fact  that  this  treatment 
occasionally  did  good  ;  for  one  thing,  many 
friends  had  as  much  confidence  in  Martha  Dean 
as  in  the  doctor,  and  it  was  good  for  them  that 
she  rallied  their  hopes  ;  "  where  there  's  a  will 
there  's  a  way  "  being  as  often  true  about  get- 
ting well  as  it  is  about  getting  rich.  But  when 
tall,  thin  Mary,  with  her  pleased,  absent- 
minded  look,  stole  into  a  bedroom  on  a  dreary 
day  and  said  nothing  but  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
or  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  'd  like  to  have  com- 
pany," and  laid  on  the  counterpane  a  very 
small  tea-rose  which  was  known  to  have 
bloomed  on  a  little  bush  that  had  been  tended 
like  a  baby,  and  brought  through  the  winter 
only  by  the  greatest  care  —  when  Mary  Dean 
did  this,  it  might  be  thought  that  she  was  too 
wistful  and  unreviving  for  a  sick-room.  Yet 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  183 

many  a  patient  wished  more  than  ever  to  get 
well  again,  if  only  to  do  something  for  this 
kind  nurse  in  return.  They  were  both  useful 
in  their  way.  It  must  be  confessed  that  Mar- 
tha made  a  great  deal  the  best  gruel ;  but  some- 
times you  wanted  one  and  sometimes  the  other, 
and  meant  no  disrespect  to  the  slighted  sister. 
They  lived  together  on  a  hilltop  just  outside 
the  village.  The  faded  yellow  story-and-a-half 
house  looked  as  if  it  had  strayed  away  a  little 
to  be  by  itself.  Perhaps  somebody  was  in- 
fluenced to  build  it  there  so  that  it  would  be 
all  ready  for  Mary  Dean,  who  loved  quiet  more 
and  more  as  she  grew  older.  Martha  often 
fretted,  and  wished  that  she  were  in  the  vil- 
lage. She  thought  the  half  a  mile  a  longish 
walk  in  bad  weather,  and  was  sure  they  would 
get  more  to  do  if  they  were  right  among  folks. 
You  would  do  twenty-five  cents'  worth  your- 
self many  a  time  rather  than  rig  all  up  in  a 
rainstorm  to  lug  it  up  a  long  hill !  If  there 
had  been  more  land  with  the  little  house,  Mar- 
tha was  sure  they  could  sell  it  to  advantage ; 
but  whenever  she  talked  about  that,  as  she 
would  sometimes,  in  a  most  fierce  way,  her  sis- 
ter provoked  her  a  little  by  not  consenting  to 


184  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

see  the  advantage.  Mary  would  only  say, 
"  Perhaps  you  know  best,"  or,  "  Do  you  think 
we  could  find  just  the  right  house  ?  "  but  she 
always  looked  utterly  miserable,  and  bright- 
ened up  when,  after  a  season  of  gloomy  silence, 
her  more  energetic  sister  would  speak  about 
something  else.  Mary  loved  every  blade  of 
grass  on  their  fifth  part  of  an  acre  ;  she  loved 
even  the  great  ledge  that  took  up  part  of  their 
small  domain,  and  made  the  rest  scorched  and 
dry  in  midsummer.  It  seemed  to  her,  if  she 
had  to  leave  the  house,  that  she  must  give  up, 
not  only  seeing  the  sunsets,  but  the  memory  of 
all  the  sunsets  she  could  remember.  The  good 
women  were  growing  old.  Martha  was  rheu- 
matic in  cold  weather,  and  it  was  Martha  who 
went  oftenest  to  the  village  and  upon  whom 
most  of  the  inconvenience  came.  "  I  expect  to 
live  and  die  here,"  she  said,  one  day,  to  a  new 
customer,  who  asked  them  if  they  had  always 
lived  in  the  old  house  ;  "  that  is,  provided  I 
don't  die  on  the  road  goin'  and  cominV 

One  day,  about  the  middle  of  November,  the 
sisters  were  both  at  home,  and  sat  each  by  her 
chosen  window,  stitching  busily.  Sometimes 
Mary  would  stop  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  look 


MATCf  AND  MARTHA.  185 

out  across  the  country,  as  if  she  really  took 
pleasure  in  seeing  the  leafless  trees  against  the 
gray  sky,  and  the  band  of  pale  yellow  in  the 
southwest,  the  soft  pale  brown  of  the  fields 
and  pastures,  and  a  bronzed  oak  here  and 
there  against  the  blackish-green  pine  woods. 
Martha  thought  it  a  very  bleak,  miserable  sort 
of  day ;  her  window  overlooked  the  road  to 
the  village,  and  hardly  anybody  had  gone  by 
all  the  afternoon. 

"  I  believe  the  only  thing  that  would  make 
it  worth  while  to  live  'way  out  here,"  she  said, 
energetically,  "  would  be  a  sewing-machine.  I 
could  take  regular  work  then  from  Torby's 
shop,  as  some  of  the  folks  are  goin'  to  do,  and 
then  we  could  have  something  to  depend  upon. 
You  ain't  able  to  go  out  all  weathers,  and  never 
was,  and  't  was  all  I  could  do  to  get  through 
last  winter.  One  time  —  don't  you  rec'lect  ?  — 
we  was  shut  up  here  four  days,  and  could  n't 
have  got  to  the  village,  to  save  us,  in  that  big 
storm.  It  makes  a  great  difference  about  the 
passing  since  they  cut  that  new  cross-road. 
And  I  should  like  to  live  where  I  could  be  rea- 
sonably certain  of  meetin'  privileges  ;  it  did 
seem  good  to  go  to  Friday  evenin'  meetin'  last 


186  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

week  when  I  was  to  the  Ellis's.  I  can't  feel 
right  to  go  away  and  leave  you  alone,  and  folks 
ain't  likely  to  want  us  both  to  once,  as  they 
used  to  a  good  deal." 

Mary  sighed  a  little.  She  knew  all  these 
arguments  well;  she  knew  that  what  they 
wanted  was  steady  work  at  home  in  winter. 
They  had  only  a  little  money  in  the  bank,  for, 
thrifty  as  they  were,  they  were  unfortunate 
too,  and  had  lost  by  a  railroad  failure  a  few 
years  ago  almost  all  their  lifetime's  savings. 
They  could  not  go  out  to  work  much  longer, 
Mary  knew  that  well.  Martha  need  not  say  it 
over  so  many  times ;  and  she  looked  up  at 
Martha,  and  was  surprised,  as  if  it  were  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  noticed  it,  to  see  that 
she  was  almost  an  old  woman.  Never  quite 
that !  The  brisk,  red  -  cheeked  girl  who  had 
been  her  childish  pride  and  admiration  could 
never  be  anything  else,  in  spite  of  the  disguises 
and  changes  with  which  time  had  masked  her 
faded  countenance.  Martha  had  a  lover,  too, 
in  the  days  of  the  red  cheeks ;  sometimes 
Mary  wondered  at  her  bravery  in  being  so 
cheerful  and  happy ;  for  the  elder  sister  had 
taken  her  life  as  it  came,  with  such  resigna- 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  187 

tion  and  uncomplainingness.  Perhaps  Mary 
felt  the  loss  of  the  lover  more  than  Martha 
herself,  who  had  suffered  at  first,  but  the  grief 
had  grown  vague  years  ago.  They  had  not 
been  engaged  very  long,  and  she  had  hardly 
grown  used  to  her  new  relationship  before  his 
sudden  death  came.  She  had  often  told  herself 
that  it  was  all  for  the  best,  and  in  spite  of  that 
liked  to  have  people  know  that  she  was  not  ex- 
actly like  other  unmarried  women  who  never 
had  been  urged  to  change  their  situation.  But 
when  Martha  had  been  sitting  in  silence,  lost 
in  thought,  and  Mary's  tender  sympathies  had 
woven  many  happy  dreams  for  her,  she  was 
apt  to  shatter  the  dreams  at  last  by  some  very 
unsentimental  remark  about  the  jacket  they 
were  making,  or  the  price  of  tea.  No  doubt 
she  often  had  her  own  sad  thoughts,  for  all 
that. 

There  was  just  such  a  silence  in  this  No- 
vember afternoon,  and  Mary,  as  usual,  humbly 
wondered  if  her  sister  were  lonely  and  troubled, 
and  if  she  herself  were  half  so  good  and  ten- 
der as  she  ought  to  be  to  one  so  dear  and  kind. 
At  last  Martha  said,  in  a  business-like  way: 
"  Next  week  we  shall  be  getting  ready  for 


188  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

Thanksgiving.  I  don't  expect  we  shall  do  so 
much  as  usual ;  I  don't  see  where  the  money 's 
comin'  from.  We  had  better  get  along  with- 
out a  chicken,  anyways ;  they  're  goin'  to  bring 
a  high  price,  and  ours  must  pay  for  the  wood 
as  far  as  they  '11  go." 

"  I  'm  thankful  as  I  can  be  every  day,"  said 
Mary,  softly.  "I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without  you,  sister.  I  hope  the  Lord 
won't  part  us ; "  and  her  lip  quivered  as  she 
spoke.  "  You  thought  we  never  should  pull 
through  this  year,"  she  resumed,  in  a  more 
commonplace  tone ;  "  but  here  we  are,  after 
all,  and  we  've  done  well,  and  been  fed,  and 
kept  warm." 

"  The  next  year  we  ought  to  shingle  the 
house  and  set  the  fences  into  some  kind  of 
shape.  I  wish  we  could  sew  up  things  out- 
doors well  's  we  can  in  ;  "  and  Martha  smiled 
grimly. 

"  We  do,  don't  we  ?  "  and  the  younger  sis- 
ter laughed  outright.  "  I  wish  we  did  have  a 
sewing-machine.  I  dare  say  by  and  by  they  '11 
get  cheaper.  I  declare  it  does  n't  seem  five 
years  since  the  war  was  over." 

"  There  's  John  Whitefield,"  said  Martha, 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  189 

angrily;  and  Mary  looked  frightened.  She 
was  always  so  sorry  when  this  topic  was 
started.  "  He  never  gives  a  thought  to  what 
our  folks  did  for  him.  I  should  n't  know  him 
if  I  was  to  see  him,  and  we  are  all  the  own 
cousins  he  's  got  on  his  father's  side.  It  does 
seem  as  if  he  might  take  some  interest  in  us 
now  we  're  all  growing  old  together.  He  must 
have  read  our  names  in  the  list  of  those  that 
lost  in  the  railroad,  and  have  known  't  was  all 
we  'd  got." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  we  don't  take  any  in- 
terest in  him,"  ventured  Mary,  timidly.  "I 
have  sometimes  thought  about  him,  and  won- 
dered if  he  supposed  we  were  set  against  him. 
There  was  so  much  hard  feelin'  between  the 
families  when  we  were  all  young,  and  we  would 
n't  speak  to  him  when  we  were  girls.  A  37oung 
man  would  be  cut  by  that  as  much  as  any- 
thing"— 

"  I  would  n't  speak  to  him  now,  either,"  and 
Martha's  voice  and  her  linen  thread  snapped 
together.  "  Everybody  said  they  treated  our 
folks  outrageously.  You  need  n't  expect  me 
to  go  meechin'  after  such  thankless  and  un- 
principled creaturs." 


190  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

Mary  hardly  knew  what  gave  her  such  cour- 
age. "  I  don't  want  to  vex  you,  I  'm  sure," 
she  said,  simply.  "  If  he  did  n't  answer  or 
did  n't  treat  us  well  any  way,  I  should  think  as 
you  do  ;  but  I  should  like  to  ask  him  to  come 
and  spend  Thanksgiving  Day  with  us,  and 
show  him  a  forgivin'  spirit.  He  ain't  so  well 
off  that  he  need  think  we  've  got  low  motives ; 
and  "  —  taking  courage  —  "  you  know  this  '11 
be  the  first  Thanksgiving  since  his  wife  died 
—  if  't  was  his  wife  we  saw  mentioned  in  the 
paper." 

"I  must  say  you  are  consistent  with  our 
havin'  nothin'  for  dinner,"  smiled  Miss  Mar- 
tha, grimly,  clicketing  together  her  big  needle 
and  her  steel  thimble  without  any  top.  "  I 
won't  lend  myself  to  any  such  notions,  and 
there  's  an  end  to  it." 

She  rose  and  disappeared  angrily  into  the 
pantry,  and  began  to  assail  the  pots  and  pans 
as  if  she  had  to  begin  the  preparations  for 
Thanksgiving  at  that  very  moment.  But  Miss 
Mary  Dean,  whom  everybody  thought  a  little 
flighty  and  unpractical,  went  on  sewing  as  long 
as  the  pale  daylight  lasted.  She  did  not  know 
why  she  was  so  disappointed  about  not  inviting 


MAR  Y  AND  MARTHA.  191 

their  unknown  cousin.  She  had  not  thought 
of  him  very  often ;  but  she  had  always  been 
a  little  ashamed  and  sorry  about  the  family 
quarrel  that  had  made  everybody  so  bitter  and 
unforgiving  when  she  was  a  girl.  Her  father 
thought  that  this  cousin's  father  cheated  him 
of  his  rights  in  the  old  home  farm. 

At  least  three  days  afterward  Sister  Martha 
was  discovered  to  be  very  silent  and  unreason- 
able; and,  in  spite  of  previous  experiences, 
Miss  Mary  was  entirely  surprised  to  be  told 
late  in  the  evening,  just  as  they  were  going  to 
bed,  that  a  letter  had  been  sent  that  day  to 
Cousin  John  asking  him  to  come  to  spend 
Thanksgiving  with  them  on  the  hilltop. 
"  You  'd  never  have  been  satisfied  without  it, 
I  suppose,"  the  good  woman  said,  grudgingly, 
as  she  went  hurling  about  the  room  ;  and 
gentle  Mary  was  filled  with  fear.  She  knew 
that  it  would  be  a  trouble  to  her  sister,  and  an 
unwelcome  one  ;  but  at  last  she  felt  very  glad, 
and  was  aggravatingly  grateful  as  she  thanked 
the  head  of  the  family  for  this  generous  deed. 
"  I  don't  know  why  my  heart  was  so  set  on  it," 
she  announced  later,  with  great  humility,  and 


192  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

Martha  sniffed  unmistakably  from  under  the 
patchwork  counterpane.  "I  hope  he  won't 
stop  long,"  she  observed,  quite  cheerfully. 
And  so  peace  was  restored,  and  Miss  Martha 
Dean  thought  about  the  dinner  and  talked  over 
her  frugal  plans,  while  Mary  listened  with 
pleased  content,  and  looked  out  through  the 
little  bedroom  window  from  her  pillow  to  see 
the  white,  twinkling,  winter-like  stars. 

"Goodness  me!  "  exclaimed  Martha  on 
Thanksgiving  morning ;  "  there  he  comes,  and 
he  looks  as  old  as  Methusaleh !  "  The  sisters 
stood  together  and  watched  their  guest  climb- 
ing the  long  hill,  and  made  characteristic  com- 
ments. "  He  does  look  real  lonesome,"  said 
Mary,  but  Martha  bustled  off  to  look  at  the 
chicken  which  had  just  been  put  into  the  oven. 
"  He  looks  as  if  he  were  hungry,"  she  growled 
on  the  way,  and  took  a  complacent  look  into 
the  kettles  after  she  had  seen  that  the  oven 
continued  to  be  in  a  proper  state  of  warmth. 
There  was  enough  for  her  to  do  to  look  after 
the  dinner.  Mary  could  attend  to  the  com- 
pany :  but,  after  all,  it  was  good  to  have  com- 
pany, especially  some  one  who  seemed  to  be 
glad  to  be  with  them.  He  had  grown  to  look 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  193 

like  her  own  dear,  honest-hearted  father  in 
these  latter  years ;  he  could  not  be  a  bad  man, 
and  it  seemed  a  great  while  since  they  had  seen 
one  of  their  own  folks  at  the  table. 

So  Martha  put  her  whole  heart  into  making 
her  little  dinner  just  as  good  as  it  could  be. 
She  sat  down  in  the  front  room  once  or  twice 
and  tried  to  talk  over  old  times,  but  she  was 
not  very  successful ;  they  were  constantly  run- 
ning against  unpleasant  subjects ;  it  seemed 
as  if  the  mistaken  household  that  had  been 
divided  against  itself  had  no  traditions  of  any- 
thing but  warfare. 

But  the  guest  was  pathetically  glad  to  come ; 
he  could  talk  to  his  cousin  Mary  about  the 
pleasure  Martha's  note  had  given  him.  He 
did  not  say  that  it  was  not  very  affectionate, 
but  he  told  the  truth  about  having  often 
wished  since  he  had  grown  older  that  they 
could  talk  over  the  old  times  and  have  a  kinder 
feeling  toward  each  other.  "  And  I  was  so 
broken  up  this  year,"  he  added,  plaintively. 
"  I  miss  my  wife  worse  and  worse.  She  was 
some  years  j^ounger  than  I,  and  always  seemed 
so  pleasant  and  sprightly  —  well,  if  one  of  you 
girls  is  left  without  the  other,  you  '11  know 


194  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

something  about  it,  that  's  all  I  can  say,"  and 
a  sudden  pang  shot  through  the  listener's  heart. 
And  Mary  Dean  looked  so  sorry  and  so  kind 
that  she  had  to  listen  to  a  great  many  things 
about  the  wife  who  had  died.  Cousin  John 
Whitefield  moved  her  sympathy  more  and 
more,  and  by  the  time  dinner  was  ready  they 
were  warm  friends.  Then  there  was  the  din- 
ner, and  the  two  elderly  women  and  their  guest 
enjoyed  it  very  much.  Miss  Martha  had  put 
on  the  best  table-cloth  and  the  best  dishes. 
She  had  done  all  she  could  to  make  the  little 
festival  a  success,  and  presently  even  she  was 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  day,  and  did  not  let 
the  least  shadow  of  disapproval  show  itself  in 
her  face  when  Mary  said :  "  Sister,  I  'm  sure  we 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  to-day  for  all  these 
good  things  and  for  Cousin  John's  company. 
I  don't  feel  as  if  we  ever  should  make  out  to  be 
enemies  again  ;  "  and  the  cousin  shook  his  head 
more  than  once,  while  something  like  a  tear 
glistened  in  the  eyes  that  were  turned  toward 
Mary  Dean.  They  talked  of  old  times  ;  they 
said  to  each  other  that  they  would  let  bygones 
be  bygones.  Some  of  the  sisters'  friends  had 
been  very  kind  ;  one  had  given  them  a  present 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  195 

of  cranberries,  which  Martha  liked  very  much, 
but  had  denied  herself,  since  they  were  so  dear 
that  year. 

Cousin  John  had  evidently  dressed  himself 
with  great  care,  but  he  looked  untended,  and 
the  sisters'  shrewd  eyes  saw  where  a  stitch  or 
two  was  needed  and  a  button  had  been  lost. 
It  seemed  more  friendly  than  ever  when  he 
stood  before  Martha  to  have  his  coat  mended ; 
it  only  took  a  minute.  And  her  eyes  were  the 
best,  Mary  said,  proudly. 

"  Girls,"  said  the  old  man,  suddenly ;  "  girls, 
I  want  to  know  if,  with  all  your  sewing  trade, 
you  have  n't  got  any  sewing-machine  ?  "  And 
the  girls  looked  at  each  other  wistfully,  and 
answered  No. 

"  Now,  I  know  what  I  '11  do  for  you,"  and 
the  withered  face  brightened.  "  I  'm  going 
to  send  you  over  Maria's.  She  set  everything 
by  it ;  't  was  one  her  brother  gave  her  —  Jo- 
siah,  that 's  so  well  off  in  New  York.  She 
says  't  was  one  of  the  best ;  and  there  it  has 
stood.  I  've  been  thinking  I  should  have  to 
sell  it.  I  '11  send  it  over  right  away."  And 
he  looked  from  one  delighted  face  to  the 
other.  "You  won't  refuse,  now?"  he  asked; 


196  MARY  AND  MARTHA. 

as  if  there  had  been  any  danger  of  that !  And 
the  sisters  confessed  how  puzzled  they  had 
been  about  their  winter's  work ;  they  had  not 
acknowledged  so  fully  even  to  each  other  that 
some  of  their  old  customers  had  died,  that  it 
hardly  paid  to  do  hand-sewing,  and  hardly  any- 
body needed  tailors'  work,  somehow ;  and  they 
were  not  able  to  be  out  in  all  weather,  or  to  be 
of  as  much  service  to  their  neighbors  as  they 
used.  But  they  were  sure  to  do  well  now  if 
they  had  a  machine.  Mr.  Torby,  at  the  shop, 
paid  excellent  prices  for  the  best  work. 

Cousin  John  stayed  until  the  next  day,  and 
they  watched  him  go  down  the  hill  with  many 
feelings  of  gratitude  and  respect.  "  It  takes 
two  to  make  a  quarrel,  but  only  one  to  end 
it,"  said  Martha,  turning  suddenly  to  Mary. 
They  both  felt  younger  than  they  had  for  a 
great  while,  and  they  pitied  their  cousin's  aged 
looks  and  slow  steps.  "  'T  was  all  owing  to 
you,"  she  went  on,  in  a  tone  that  was  not 
usual  with  her.  "  Mary,  I  believe  you  Ve 
chosen  the  better  part,  and  you  've  listened  to 
the  Lord's  words  while  I  've  been  cumbered 
with  much  serving."  But  Mary  would  have 
it  that  only  Martha  could  have  made  Cousin 


MARY  AND  MARTHA.  197 

John  so  comfortable,  and  got  him  the  good 
Thanksgiving  dinner. 

"  The  dinner  's  the  least  part  of  it,"  said 
Martha,  this  time  in  her  every-day,  short  fash- 
ion of  speech.  "  There  !  it 's  beginning  to 
snow.  I  wish,  if  there  's  a  good  fall  of  it,  we 
could  just  put  this  house  on  runners  and  slide 
down  hill !  "  But  she  looked  very  good-na- 
tured, and  Mary  laughed  softly. 

"  You  say  that  every  year,  don't  you,  Mar- 
tha ?  "  said  she.  "  Just  think  how  long  we  Ve 
been  wishing  for  a  sewing-machine,  and  now 
we're  really  going  to  have  one.  I  suppose 
you  '11  know  just  how  to  use  it  before  it  has 
been  here  a  day." 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

MRS.  PEAK  had  been  to  Petersham  herself, 
to  spend  Thanksgiving  with  her  niece,  and 
brought  the  first  account  of  old  Mr.  Johnson's 
illness.  Mrs.  Jesse  Johnson,  his  daughter-in- 
law,  had  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  Thursday 
afternoon,  and  had  said  it  was  the  first  time 
since  she  could  remember  that  the  old  gentle- 
man had  not  been  in  his  seat  in  church  on 
Thanksgiving  Day.  And  they  all  felt  as  if  it 
were  a  great  break. 

"  He  would  insist  upon  setting  at  the  ta- 
ble," said  Mrs.  Jesse,  "  but  he  looked  too  fee- 
ble to  be  out  of  his  bed.  These  bad  colds  take 
hold  of  a  man  of  his  years." 

After  the  visitor  had  gone  Mrs.  Peak  and 
her  niece  Martha  talked  a  good  deal  about  the 
changes  in  the  family  which  would  be  sure  to 
come  when  Mr.  Johnson  died. 

"I  know  that  Jesse's  folks  are  depending 
upon  getting  a  lift,"  said  Martha.  "Mis' 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.      199 

Jesse  has  hinted  as  much  to  me  more  than 
once,  for  she  says  Jesse  's  got  more  than  he 
can  carry  in  his  business,  and  everything 
would  be  easy  if  he  only  had  a  little  more  cap- 
ital. Truth  is,  I  have  an  idea  that  he 's  teased 
a  good  share  away  from  his  father  now,  and 
the  old  gentleman  is  n't  so  ready  as  he  used  to 
be  to  further  his  projects.  And  there  's  Wil- 
liam, his  other  son,  I  know  it  to  be  a  fact  that 
he  is  intending  to  go  out  West  when  his  fa- 
ther 's  taken  away.  He  has  had  a  notion  of  it 
for  a  good  while ;  his  wife's  sister's  folks  are 
all  out  there  and  doing  well." 

"  They  '11  be  very  much  missed  as  a  family," 
said  Mrs.  Peak ;  "  how  Petersham  has  changed 
from  what  it  was  when  I  was  a  girl !  " 

When  she  went  home  the  next  day  she  was 
quite  downhearted,  and  told  Asa  Fales,  who 
happened  to  be  at  the  depot  when  the  train 
came  in  and  offered  to  carry  her  home,  that 
old  Mr.  Daniel  Johnson  was  breaking  up  — 
at  least,  so  his  family  seemed  to  think.  Asa 
Fales  was  deeply  concerned ;  the  two  villages 
were  only  a  few  miles  apart,  and  he  had  beeii 
a  Petersham  boy.  It  was  old  Mr.  Johnson  ta 
whom  he  owed  his  rue  in  the  world,  and  he 


200      THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

remembered  that  he  might  never  have  owned 
his  flourishing  country  store  if  it  had  not 
been  for  this  kind  friend's  assistance.  Be- 
sides, he  had  been  confident  of  Mr.  Johnson's 
support  if  he  should  make  up  his  mind  to 
buy  a  large  tract  of  woodland  which  would 
pay  well  for  being  cleared  that  very  next  win- 
ter. He  was  already  indebted  to  him,  how- 
ever, and  it  would  be  a  very  different  thing  if 
he  were  the  debtor  of  the  eager  heirs.  So 
with  all  this  in  his  mind  he  questioned  Mrs. 
Peak  anxiously,  and  they  concluded  that  Mr. 
Johnson's  end  was  not  far  distant. 

"  Of  course  he  made  a  great  effort  to  get  to 
the  table  on  account  of  its  being  Thanksgiv- 
ing," said  Asa,  sorrowfully,  "  but  I  'm  afraid 
he  '11  give  right  up  now.  I  'd  ride  right  over 
to  see  him  to-morrow,  but  I  can't  get  away, 
It 's  right  in  my  busy  time ;  I  'm  buying  up  a 
great  deal  of  wood  this  fall,  and  some  of  'em 
are  bringing  it  in  now  on  wheels  instead  of 
waiting  for  snow." 

"  The  snow  does  keep  off  late  this  year," 
said  Mrs.  Peak  "  Here  it 's  the  first  o'  De- 
cember, and  there 's  only  been  one  flurry  that 
was  hardly  more  than  a  hoar-frost." 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.     201 

They  reached  the  little  gray  house  behind 
the  lilac-bushes,  where  Mrs.  Peak  lived  alone, 
and  as  she  unlocked  its  side-door  and  went  in, 
it  seemed  strangely  cold  and  lonely.  "  I  must 
look  about  for  a  likely  kitten,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  "  they  're  a  sight  of  company,  and  what 
trouble  it  gave  would  be  no  harm.  I  declare 
it  makes  me  feel  lonesome  ;  all  the  folks  I 
have  always  been  used  to  knowing  are  a-dying 
off.  I  always  set  a  good  deal  by  Daniel 
Johnson." 

Two  neighbors  looked  up  the  road  a  little 
later  than  this  from  their  kitchen  windows, 
and  seeing  a  light  in  Mrs.  Peak's  kitchen  also, 
said  to  themselves  that  she  might  be  lonely 
that  evening  without  anybody  to  speak  to,  and 
they  would  step  over  and  hear  the  news.  They 
met  at  the  door,  each  with  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  her  knitting-work  in  her  hands,  — 
and  were  welcomed  most  heartily.  Mrs.  West, 
who  was  very  fond  of  talking,  began  at  once  to 
describe  her  experiences  Thanksgiving  morn- 
ing, when  she  found  that  the  cats  had  stolen 
into  the  pantry  during  the  night,  and  mangled 
the  turkey  so  that  it  was  only  fit  to  be  thrown 
away.  It  was  too  late  to  get  another,  except  a 


202      THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

rack  of  bones  fit  only  for  a  lantern,  that  had 
been  left  at  Fales's  store. 

"  I  did  n't  know  what  in  the  world  I  should 
do.  There  was  all  the  folks  coming  ;  his  sis- 
ter and  all  the  child'n,  and  my  brother  and 
his  wife,  and  we  three  at  home  are  middlin' 
hearty  —  but  there;  we  made  out  with  the 
chicken-pie  and  a  spare-rib  I  put  right  in.  It 
so  happened  I  had  one  that  was  thawed.  An' 
I  took  those  cats  and  soused  'em  well  in  a  tub 
o'  water,  after  I  'd  give  'em  as  good  a  beating 
as  I  knew  how.  And  after  a  while  they  stole 
in  half  froze,  and  set  by  the  stove  meek  as 
Moses  with  their  paws  tucked  underneath  'em, 
and  when  I  'd  look  at  'em  they  'd  mew  at  me 
both  together  'thout  making  a  sound.  For  all 
I  was  so  worked  up,  I  had  to  laugh." 

They  all  laughed  again  at  the  cats,  while 
Mrs.  Peak  acknowledged  that  she  had  just 
been  thinking  of  getting  a  kitten,  but  such  ac- 
counts as  this  were  discouraging,  —  and  Mrs. 
West  promptly  offered  her  own  virtuous  pus- 
sies, which  amused  the  little  company  very 
much. 

"  You  have  n't  told  us  yet  whether  you 
heard  anything  over  at  Petersham,"  said  Mrs. 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.      203 

Rogers,  the  other  guest,  at  which  Mrs.  Peak's 
face  grew  long. 

"  I  had  a  beautiful  visit  with  Martha,"  she 
answered,  "  but  I  Ve  been  feeling  anxious  to 
hear  again  from  old  Mr.  Daniel  Johnson. 
Jesse's  wife  came  in  and  said  he  seemed  very 
feeble.  He  did  n't  make  no  effort  to  get  out 
to  meetin'  Thanksgivin'  Day,  and  Martha  said 
she  'd  noticed  he  looked  pale  and  kind  o'  wiz- 
ened up  two  or  three  weeks  ago." 

"  I  suppose  the  cold  weather  pinched  him," 
suggested  Mrs.  West.  "  Well,  he  '11  be  a  great 
loss." 

"I  heard  from  him  direct  this  morning," 
continued  Mrs.  Peak,  mournfully.  "  I  called 
to  Jesse's  oldest  boy  as  he  went  by,  and  he 
said  his  grand 'ther  was  n't  any  better.  I 
asked  if  he  was  abed,  and  he  said,  '  No.'  He 's 
got  a  sight  o'  resolution ;  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  he  did  n't  take  his  bed  at  all." 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  '11  pay  their  minis- 
ter the  salary  they  give  him  now,  when  they 
lose  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  Mrs.  Rogers.  "  He  's 
always  ready  to  give,  and  he  does  what  he 
can  for  his  folks.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he 
had  n't  but  a  little  property  left,  after  all  he  'a 


204      THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

had  to  do,  and  being  out  o'  business  for  some 
years  now." 

"  He 's  kept  his  money  a-movin,"  observed 
Mrs.  West.  "  There  ain't  no  such  business 
man  about  here,  but  there  's  been  plenty  o' 
hands  reached  out  to  take  what  they  could  get. 
Well,  't  is  all  over  now  ;  he  won't  last  a  great 
while  if  he  's  as  feeble  as  you  say.  His  father 
went  just  the  same  way,  only  kept  the  house  a 
week,  and  his  bed  the  last  day." 

"  I  should  have  gone  right  over  to  see  him 
myself  yesterday,"  said  the  hostess,  "but  it 
kept  raining  steady  all  day,  same  as  it  did  here, 
I  suppose." 

"  They  '11  be  likely  to  have  his  funeral  from 
the  meeting-house,  won't  they?"  asked  Mrs. 
Rogers,  solemnly;  but  nobody  could  answer 
her  question. 

Next  day  being  Sunday,  and  most  of  the 
congregation  coming  from  the  scattered  farms, 
there  was  the  usual  exchange  of  greetings  and 
inquiries  for  news.  And  in  this  way  the  sad 
story  of  Mr.  Johnson's  last  illness  was  spread 
far  and  wide  before  night.  And  in  passing 
from  one  to  another,  the  report  became  every 
hour  more  serious.  At  last  some  one  ventured 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.     205 

fco  say  that,  judging  from  what  she  had  just 
heard,  the  poor  man  could  not  now  be  living. 
And  the  listener  felt  justified  in  announcing 
that  Mrs.  Smith  thought  there  was  no  doubt 
that  he  was  dead. 

Late  on  Sunday  night  Mrs.  West  brought 
the  news  to  Mrs.  Peak. 

"  He  heard  it  from  some  one  who  stopped  at 
Asa  Fales's,  but  there  was  n't  no  particulars  ; " 
and  Mrs.  Peak  said  nobody  had  any  idea  Mr. 
Johnson  would  go  so  soon.  It  was  a  great 
shock  to  her ;  as  much  as  if  she  had  not  known 
of  his  illness. 

"  Death  is  always  sudden  at  the  last,"  said 
Mrs.  West.  "  I  suppose  you  will  go  over  to 
the  funeral  ?  —  it  seems  a  pity  you  should  have 
come  home  Saturday,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  I  shall  get  ready  to  go  by  the  first  train," 
answered  the  old  lady,  crying  a  little.  "  I  de- 
clare I  wish  I  'd  gone  to  the  house  before  I 
come  away.  It  ain't  that  I  think  of  the  ex- 
pense of  going  to  Petersham  twice,  for  that 's 
nothing  at  such  a  time  as  this,  but  I  can't  feel 
reconciled  to  not  seeing  him  again.  He  was 
a  most  amiable  Christian  man,  —  there  won't 
be  many  dry  eyes  in  Petersham  the  day  he  's 


206      THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

buried.  I  've  known  him  ever  since  I  Ve 
known  anybody." 

So  by  the  earliest  train  next  day  Mrs.  Peak 
went  back  to  Petersham.  Her  countenance 
wore  a  solemn  expression.  She  felt  herself  to 
be  one  of  the  chief  mourners,  though  her  place 
in  the  procession  would  probably  be  not  far 
from  the  least  afflicted  end.  As  she  stepped 
down  from  the  car,  she  pulled  a  very  long  face, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  no  signs  of  the  ca- 
lamity which  had  befallen  the  village.  She 
meditated  upon  the  way  the  world  moves  on 
though  its  best  men  die,  and  took  her  way, 
to  save  time,  through  the  back  streets  to  her 
niece  Martha's. 

"  Well,  Martha,"  she  said,  sadly,  "  I  'm  sure 
I  did  n't  think  I  should  be  back  again  so  soon 
when  I  left  you.  When  do  they  bury  ?  " 

"  Who  ? "  asked  Martha,  much  amazed. 
She  was  busy  washing,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  prepared  for  her  aunt's  appearance.  She 
was  used  to  making  careful  arrangements 
when  she  expected  guests  —  being,  as  her 
friends  said,  very  set  in  her  ways  —  and  if 
there  was  anything  she  disliked  it  was  a  lack 
of  ceremony,  even  from  her  nearest  relatives. 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.     207 

"I  haven't  heard  of  any  death,"  she  as- 
sured her  aunt,  who  was  apparently  much  per- 
plexed. 

"  Somebody  told  the  Wests  last  night  that 
Mr.  Dan'el  Johnson  had  passed  away,  and 
Mis'  West  came  right  out  to  tell  me,"  Mrs. 
Peak  explained  at  last. 

Martha  began  to  laugh.  "He  was  out  to 
meeting  last  night  as  sure  as  the  world,"  she 
said.  "  He  's  had  a  bad  cold,  —  you  know 
he  's  always  been  subject  to  fall  colds,  —  but 
he  's  about  again.  I  heard  Jesse's  wife  fussin' 
at  him  about  doin'  up  his  throat  when  we  were 
comin'  out  o'  the  meetin'-house  last  night." 

"  She  was  dreadful  down-hearted  about  him, 
I  'm  sure,  when  she  come  in  Thanksgiving 
night,"  ventured  Mrs.  Peak  in  self-defense. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Peak,"  said  Martha,  "  have  n't 
you  seen  enough  of  Lydia  Johnson  by  this 
time  to  know  that  she  always  thinks  every- 
thing and  everybody  is  going  to  rack  and 
ruin  ?  She  was  cheerful  about  the  old  gentle- 
man to  what  she  is  sometimes.  To  be  sure 
we  all  know  he  's  getting  along  in  years." 

"  Seems  to  me  I  do  rec'lect  she  is  apt  to 
look  on  the  dark  side,"  reflected  Mrs.  Peak 


208     THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM 

"  But  now,  Marthy,  don't  speak  to  any  one  of 
what  my  errand  was  in  coming  over.  I  Ve 
got  a  little  shopping  any  way  that  I  forgot 
last  week,  and  folks  will  think  we  're  dreadful 
hungry  for  news  over  our  way." 

"  It  does  look  like  it,"  chuckled  Martha. 
"  But  do  stop  to  dinner,  aunt,  now  you  're 
over  ;  it 's  coming  winter  and  you  may  not  get 
started  again.  'Tis  a  pity  there  ain't  some- 
thing else  for  you  to  go  to.  I  s'pose  you  've 
heard  that  story  about  the  old  ladies  that  set 
out  for  a  funeral  and  found  they  'd  missed  the 
day,  and  asked  the  folks  if  they  did  n't  know 
of  a  funeral  they  could  go  to  ?  " 

"  Marthy,"  said  her  Aunt  Peak,  "  I  should 
think  you  had  no  feelin's.  It  was  n't  my  fault 
as  I  know  of  that  the  story  got  about.  I  did 
speak  of  it  to  one  or  two  that  his  son's  wife 
appeared  concerned,  and  when  word  come  that 
he  was  gone  I  only  thought  she  had  good  rea- 
son to  be  anxious  ;  and  he  was  an  old  friend, 
and  a  leader  in  church  interests,  and  I  thought, 
natural  enough,  I  'd  come  right  over.'* 

"  Don't  take  it  hard  of  me,  joking  with 
you,"  said  Martha,  "  but  it  is  kind  of  amusing 
when  you  come  to  look  at  it  and  see  how  sto« 


THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM.      209 

lies  get  made  up  and  set  going  out  of  nothing. 
Every  one  of  'em  thinks  they  tell  the  truth, 
and  first  thing  you  know  there  's  a  lie  travel- 
ing about  fast  as  lightning,"  and  she  turned  to 
her  neglected  washing,  as  if  no  time  must  be 
lost. 

"  I  can't  get  back  before  two.  I  'm  sorry  I 
happened  to  trouble  you  on  an  inconvenient 
day,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Peak,  humbly. 
"  I  '11  step  down  the  street  for  a  while  and  do 
u  few  errands,  and  you  must  n't  let  me  put  you 
out.  Just  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  taste  of  bread 
and  butter '11  be  all  I  ask  for,"  and  Martha 
nodded  and  told  her  aunt  not  to  worry,  and  to 
have  as  good  a  time  as  she  could. 

The  old  lady's  pride  had  met  with  a  sad 
downfall  —  she  did  not  know  how  to  face  the 
people  at  home.  But  luckily  she  was  saved 
the  first  acknowledgment,  as  Asa  Fales  had 
reached  Petersham  before  her  and  had  found 
Mr.  Daniel  Johnson  briskly  at  work  by  the 
garden  trellis  covering  his  grape-vines. 

He  had  prudently  avoided  any  reference  to 
the  next  world,  and,  indeed,  had  learned  the 
falseness  of  the  story  from  a  Petersham  man 
whom  he  had  met  on  the  road.  So  he  entered 


210      THE  NEWS  FROM  PETERSHAM. 

at  once  upon  the  project  of  buying  the  pine 
woods  between  Gaytown  and  Hollis,  and  found 
to  his  great  satisfaction  that  his  old  friend 
would  be  glad  to  join  him  if  the  affair  could 
be  well  arranged. 

Mrs.  Peak  herself  met  Mr.  Johnson,  and 
could  hardly  look  him  in  the  face  when  she 
asked  for  his  health.  And  when  the  neigh- 
bors came  in  one  after  another  that  evening 
after  she  was  again  comfortably  established  at 
home,  she  said,  "  You  may  laugh  at  me  all 
you  have  a  mind  to,  but  I  don't  mean  to 
need  another  lesson  like  this.  I  think  it 's  a 
good  deal  better  to  mind  what  we  Ve  got  to  do 
instead  of  livin'  on  what  folks  have  got  to  say ; 
but  it 's  hard  to  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks, 
and  I  suppose  I  shall  always  like  to  hear  what 
news  there  is  a-goinV 


THE  TWO  BROWNS. 
I. 

BROWN  left  his  chair  by  the  fire  somewhat 
impatiently,  and  dropped  his  newspaper  on  the 
rug ;  he  crossed  the  dining-room  to  the  bay- 
window,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  his  wife, 
looking  out  at  the  weather.  Women  were  such 
persistent  geese !  He  had  a  vague  idea  that 
she  might  take  some  notice  of  the  disagreeable 
sleet  and  wind,  and  relent  a  little  about  hint- 
ing that  he  had  better  be  at  his  office.  She 
had  already  asked  him  to  renew  her  subscrip- 
tion to  the  church  newspaper  (he  would  have 
to  leave  the  stage  and  walk  a  block  and  a 
half),  and  had  said  that  he  must  look  in  at  her 
brother  Bob's  counting-room  some  time  during 
the  day  to  ask  for  his  wife's  health.  She  had 
furthermore  given  him  two  letters  to  post,  and 
had  reminded  him  three  times  that  he  must  not 
forget  them. 


212  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

"  I  believe  that  I  will  not  go  to  the  office 
to-day,"  Brown  announced  presently,  with  con- 
siderable dignity  and  even  sternness,  as  if  he 
would  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  contradicted 
in  any  shape.  His  wife  said  nothing  to  this, 
which  was  a  great  disappointment ;  and  after 
growing  more  and  more  disturbed  for  a  minute 
or  two  he  turned  and  offered  his  explanations. 
Mrs.  Brown  was  devoting  herself  to  the  baby, 
while  the  nursery-maid  was  busy  up-stairs  in 
the  baby's  luxurious  quarters.  Brown  was 
usually  neither  too  proud  nor  too  much  occu- 
pied to  devote  himself  to  his  daughter,  also, 
but  now  he  walked  stiffly  back  to  the  big 
chair  by  the  fire,  and  took  no  notice  of  the 
little  hands  that  were  put  out  to  him.  The 
baby's  mother  flushed  suddenly  with  some- 
thing like  anger,  very  unusual  in  her  gentle 
face. 

"  It  is  such  an  abominable  day,"  said  Brown. 
"  I  don't  feel  very  energetic.  There  won't  be  a 
soul  inside  the  office  door,  unless  it 's  a  book 
agent.  I  am  going  to  make  myself  comfort- 
able at  home,  and  see  something  of  you  and  — 
yes,  you  little  pink ! " 

He  had  come  so  near  to  neglecting  the  baby 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  213 

that  his  better  nature  could  submit  no  longer, 
and  he  caught  the  smiling  child,  and  went 
prancing  round  the  breakfast  table  until  she 
shrieked  with  delight,  and  family  harmony 
was  restored.  Mrs.  Brown  smiled,  too,  —  they 
were  a  happy  household ;  but  she  looked  seri- 
ous again  directly,  and  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  Ben,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  like  to  have 
you  neglect  your  profession." 

Brown  stopped  his  capering,  and  the  cups 
and  plates  gave  a  final  jingle.  "When  you 
know  perfectly  well  how  it  neglects  me  !  "  he 
responded  solemnly,  with  a  twinkling  eye. 

Even  in  the  presence  of  the  baby  Mrs.  Brown 
did  not  like  to  have  such  confessions  made,  and 
she  looked  up  reproachfully.  She  kept  up  with 
great  care  the  fiction  of  her  husband's  having 
already  a  fair  law  practice  for  a  young  man  of 
his  age,  and  a  very  promising  outlook.  Brown 
had  no  imagination ;  he  made  no  complaint ; 
he  knew  plenty  of  fellows  in  the  same  box, 
and  was  not  going  to  shoulder  the  whole  shame 
of  paying  rent  for  a  clientless  office.  He  had 
begun  to  get  tired  of  spending  his  days  there 
altogether,  even  with  the  resource  of  taking 
ail  the  time  he  liked  for  an  elaborate  and  social 


214  THE  TWO   BROWNS. 

luncheon.  His  wife  had  been  growing  a  trifle 
anxious  lately  because  it  was  so  difficult  to 
tempt  his  appetite  at  dinner-time,  and  Gales, 
the  wit  of  the  luncheon  club,  had  said  in  his 
affected  little  drawling  voice  only  the  day  be- 
fore, "  Shall  have  to  cut  this  sort  of  thing, 
you  know ;  getting  too  stout,  and  always  hated 
eating  my  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Could  do  it  with  one  client,  but  to-morrow  I  'm 
expecting  another."  Brown  suddenly  remem- 
bered this,  and  smiled,  because  he  had  a  quick, 
amusing  fear  lest  the  bad  weather  might  keep 
Gales's  client  at  home.  Then  he  gave  a  sigh, 
and  gently  deposited  the  baby  in  her  mother's 
lap.  "  I  will  go,  you  hard-hearted  monsters," 
he  said,  kissing  them  both,  "  but  why  I  ever 
let  myself  be  coaxed  into  studying  law  is  the 
puzzle  of  my  life.  If  I  had  something  to  do 
I  would  work  like  a  beaver.  I  've  got  it  in 
me,  fast  enough,  but  I  hate  this  make-believe 
business.  So  would  you." 

"  I  do  feel  sorry  about  it ;  you  know  I  do," 
answered  Lucy,  with  great  tenderness  and  sym- 
pathy. "  I  should  be  perfectly  unhappy.  But 
you  have  your  studies,  Ben,  dear." 

"  I  begin  to  hate  those  old  yellow  books," 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  215 

said  Ben.  "Now,  if  my  father  had  let  me 
study  engineering,  as  I  wished,  I  should  have 
been  in  the  middle  of  things  by  this  time." 

"  You  never  would  have  broken  the  chain  ?  " 
asked  Lucy,  with  unfeigned  anxiety  roused 
by  such  treason.  She  had  been  so  proud  of 
Brown's  being  the  fourth  lawyer  of  his  line 
and  of  his  precocious  scholarship.  He  was 
only  twenty-eight  years  and  two  months  old  at 
that  moment,  beside,  and  it  was  much  too  soon 
to  lose  all  hope  about  his  future. 

Brown  went  manfully  out  into  the  sleet  a 
few  minutes  later,  and  his  wife  and  the  baby 
watched  him  from  the  window.  He  was  a 
handsome,  good-natured  young  man,  and  it  was 
impossible  not  to  be  proud  of  him^  or  to  feel 
sorry  at  his  temporary  discomfort  as  he  slipped 
and  plodded  along  the  incumbered  sidewalk. 
When  he  had  paused  for  a  moment  at  the 
corner  to  throw  a  last  kiss  to  the  baby  and 
wave  his  hand,  old  Mr.  Grandison,  who  stood 
at  his  own  window  opposite,  nodded  his  head 
in  sage  approval.  "  Good  fellow,"  he  grum- 
bled, with  his  chin  plunged  deep  in  his  old- 
fashioned  black  silk  stock.  "  Comes  of  a  good 
family,  and  is  sharp  after  his  business."  The 


216  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

damp  air  blew  in  at  the  window,  and  the  spec- 
tator of  Brown's  departure  was  obliged  to 
turn  away  and  seek  his  fireside  again.  He 
would  have  been  perfectly  thankful  to  change 
places  with  the  young  man,  and  go  down  town 
to  do  a  stiff  day's  work,  as  he  used  twenty 
years  ago. 

Lucy  Brown  had  turned  aside  from  her 
window,  also,  and  begun  an  eager  morning's 
work.  She  had  been  dreadfully  afraid  that 
Ben  would  insist  upon  staying  at  home,  and 
she  felt  hard-hearted  in  very  truth.  But  when 
she  had  waked  up  that  morning  to  find  it 
snowing,  she  had  resolved  to  have  the  books 
in  the  library  thoroughly  cleaned.  Nobody 
would  come  in,  and  she  would  muster  the 
household  force,  and  of  course  attend  to  Ben's 
private  desk  and  papers  herself.  She  was  still 
excited  by  her  narrow  escape  from  complete 
disappointment,  but  she  hoped  she  had  not 
seemed  anything  but  kind  and  affectionate  in 
urging  her  husband  that  day  of  all  others  to 
go  to  his  office. 

Mr.  John  Benedict  Brown  had  an  uneventful 
journey  to  his  place  of  business.  He  liked  the 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  217 

bad  weather,  on  the  whole,  —  he  had  so  few 
things  ordinarily  to  match  his  youthful  energy 
against,  —  and  he  met  two  or  three  companions 
in  misery,  if  one  had  any  right  to  call  these 
briefless  barristers  by  such  a  hard  name.  Each 
carried  his  green  bag,  but  Brown's  friend  Gales 
unconsciously  held  his  in  such  a  way  that  the 
shape  of  a  box  of  cigars  was  displayed  un- 
mistakably as  its  only  contents.  Gales's  office 
was  farther  down  the  street,  and  Brown  re- 
membered his  promise  about  the  subscription 
just  in  time  not  to  pass  the  office  of  the  paper. 
He  would  have  sent  a  note  to  the  publisher, 
to  do  his  errand,  but  Lucy  was  very  strenuous 
upon  his  settling  the  matter  in  person.  She 
had  paid  for  a  year  in  advance,  and  the  bill 
had  been  rendered  again.  She  was  most  de- 
pendent upon  this  particular  publication,  and 
seemed  absurdly  anxious  to  stand  well  in  the 
publisher's  estimation.  There  was  only  one 
other  man  in  the  office  beside  the  clerk,  when 
Brown  entered.  This  other  man  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  door,  looking  over  a  file  of 
newspapers,  and  until  the  small  matter  was  set- 
tled, in  a  general  and  impersonal  fashion  that 
would  have  wounded  Mrs.  Brown,  he  gave  no 
sign  of  consciousness  of  Brown's  presence. 


218  THE   TWO  BROWNS. 

Then  lie  laid  down  the  newspapers  and  ap- 
proached our  friend.  "  Snooks,  old  boy,  how 
are  you  ?  "  he  inquired  affectionately,  and  a 
little  timidly,  too,  as  if  not  quite  certain  of  his 
reception. 

The  very  name  of  Snooks  was  sufficient ;  it 
had  been  Brown's  nickname  at  the  school 
where  he  had  fitted  for  college.  Anybody  who 
called  him  Snooks  had  a  right  to  favor  after 
the  space  of  at  least  a  dozen  years  since  those 
happy  days  when  he  had  heard  it  often.  This 
schoolmate  had  not  followed  the  class  to  college, 
but  he  had  been  a  good  crony  in  his  day,  and  a 
lad  of  some  cleverness  and  an  erratic  habit  of 
mind.  Only  a  few  days  before,  Gales,  who  had 
also  been  at  the  school,  had  asked  our  hero  what 
had  become  of  Checkley.  Old  Shekels  they 
used  to  call  him,  for  the  inconsequent  reason 
that  he  never  had  two  cents  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  kept  at  his  studies  by  some  kind  and  char- 
Hable  friend,  who  forgot  to  an  aggravating 
extent  to  supply  the  minor  comforts  of  life. 
Checkley  had  developed  an  amazing  gift  for 
maintaining  himself  by  an  ingenious  system  of 
barter,  like  those  savages  who  have  not  got  so 
far  in  civilization  as  any  sort  of  exchequer  or 
strictly  financial  arrangements. 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  219 

The  old  brotherliness  of  the  past  quickly 
filled  Brown's  heart.  Checkley  looked  hungry, 
as  usual,  but  he  would  take  him  to  the  office 
and  make  him  a  welcome  companion  that  dull 
morning,  and  by  and  by  they  would  have  a 
bit  of  luncheon  together.  After  all,  the  day 
promised  well;  he  had  feared  a  very  special 
lack  of  entertainment. 

"  Come  round  to  my  office,"  said  Brown, 
warmly.  "I've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 
this  morning.  Tell  me  what  you  have  been 
about  all  this  time.  I  '11  send  for  Gales  pres- 
ently ;  he  was  asking  for  you  a  day  or  two  ago. 
We  're  both  in  the  law ;  lots  of  time  to  call 
our  own,  too,"  he  added,  with  a  cheerful  hon- 
esty which  his  wife  would  have  inwardly  la- 
mented and  tried  to  explain. 

Checkley  was  out  that  day  protected  by  a 
melancholy  fall  overcoat  and  no  umbrella,  but 
he  took  Brown's  umbrella,  and  carried  it  over 
both  their  heads  with  careful  impartiality,  as 
if  it  were  his  own.  He  looked  as  if  he  were 
growing  old,  which  seemed  premature  in  a 
man  of  thirty.  Brown  could  not  help  a  sus- 
picion that  Checkley  had  made  himself  up  for 
some  secret  purpose.  He  always  used  to  say 


220  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

that  he  meant  to  be  a  detective,  and  had  been 
considered  immensely  clever  in  some  boyish 
plays  and  pantomimes.  However,  another 
stolen  glance  made  Brown  feel  certain  that  this 
appearance  was  Checkley  as  Himself,  An  Un- 
successful Man,  and  that  the  gray  hairs  which 
sprinkled  his  thin,  straight,  brownish  hair  were 
quite  genuine.  The  thinness  and  lankness  of 
his  boyhood  had  never  fulfilled  their  promise 
of  a  robust  frame,  'but  appeared  to  have  suf- 
fered from  exposure  and  neglect,  like  an  un- 
finished building  which  has  had  time  to  let  its 
timbers  get  rain-blackened  and  look  poor. 

But  the  same  spirit  and  shrewd  determina- 
tion twinkled  from  Checkley's  eyes,  and  he 
kept  step  manfully  with  his  well-clothed  and 
well-fed  acquaintance.  This  was  a  most  for- 
tunate meeting.  Nothing  had  ever  played 
better  into  his  hands.  Snooks  Brown  was  al- 
ways a  good  fellow,  and  luck  was  sure  to  turn. 

"  You  are  n't  in  the  '  Parishioner's  War-Cry ' 
office  as  a  permanent  thing,  I  imagine  ?  "  asked 
Brown,  with  friendly  desire  to  keep  up  the  con- 
versation, just  as  they  stepped  into  the  eleva- 
tor. "  Odd  that  we  should  have  happened  to 
find  each  other  there.  I  never  was  inside  that 
place  before." 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  221 

"  No,"  said  Checkley.  "  Truth  is,  it  looked 
quiet  and  secluded,  and  I  put  into  harbor  there 
to  dry  off  a  little  and  get  my  wits  together. 
Temporary  asylum.  I  was  paying  that  clerk 
the  compliment  of  looking  over  his  newspa- 
pers, but  I  think  he  was  just  beginning  to  sus- 
pect that  I  held  them  upside  down.  I  had  a 
kind  of  revenge  on  him  when  you  came  in.  It 
looked  as  if  we  had  an  appointment,  you  know, 
and  you  were  always  so  thundering  respecta- 
ble." 

Brown  laughed  with  unaffected  pleasure. 
He  was  not  so  far  from  boyhood  as  a  stranger 
might  imagine.  There  was  something  delight- 
ful about  Checkley's  turning  up  that  wet  Feb- 
ruary morning,  and  telling  the  most  mortify- 
ing facts  about  himself  with  honest  sincerity. 
He  took  the  wet,  thin  overcoat  and  put  it  away 
with  his  own,  and  would  have  insisted  upon  his 
guest's  occupying  the  best  chair  in  the  office,  if 
he  had  not  promptly  taken  it  without  any  in- 
vitation. There  was  an  open  wood  fire,  and 
Checkley  stretched  out  a  pair  of  very  shabby 
shoes  to  dry  with  an  air  of  comfort  and  satis- 
faction. He  was  a  schemer,  a  dreamer,  a  curi- 
ous plotter  of  insignificant  things,  but  he  never 


222  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

had  been  a  toady  or  a  beggar,  and  there  was  a 
golden  thread  of  good  humor  and  unselfishness 
through  his  unprofitable  character. 

Brown  had  taken  up  a  not  very  ponderous 
mail  that  lay  on  his  desk,  —  two  or  three  bills, 
as  many  circulars,  and  an  invitation  to  make 
further  subscription  to  the  Art  Club.  He 
gravely  looked  these  over,  and  put  them  in  an 
orderly  heap  at  the  further  edge  of  the  blotter. 
Old  Shekels's  shoes  were  beginning  to  steam  at 
the  toes,  and  his  host  noticed  that  they  looked 
about  the  size  of  his  cwn  shoes.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  an  extra  pair  of  arctics  in  the  office 
closet  that  could  be  offered  before  they  went 
out  to  luncheon.  Brown  felt  a  glow  of  kind- 
heartedness  spread  itself  over  him,  as  he  re- 
solved to  dress  Checkley  in  comfortable  fash- 
ion before  they  parted  again.  "  You  look  just 
as  you  did  when  we  used  to  stay  up  after  hours, 
and  sit  before  the  fire  and  tell  stories,"  he  said, 
jovially,  to  his  guest.  "  I  dare  say  you  could 
spin  as  good  a  midnight  yarn  as  ever." 

"  You  rich  fellows  see  the  world  from  a  dif- 
ferent angle,"  responded  Checkley,  who  grew 
more  luxurious  every  moment.  "  Now  it  really 
makes  no  difference  how  long  you  have  to  wait 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  223 

for  practice ;  it  's  sure  to  come,  if  only  when 
you  begin  to  settle  up  the  family  estates. 
There  are  half  a  dozen  good  round  ones  ;  and 
they  never  would  like  to  choose  any  one  else, 
all  those  good  old  aunties  of  yours.  If  you 
had  been  out  of  school  when  your  father  died, 
you  would  have  gone  on  with  at  least  a  third 
of  his  business,  and  that  was  enough  for  you 
to  handle.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  and 
you  're  rich  any  way.  I  don't  like  to  see  all 
your  first-rate  abilities  rusting  out,  neverthe- 
less. I  always  said  there  was  more  good  stuff 
in  you  than  in  any  of  the  fellows,  —  more  hold 
on  and  push  too,  if  you  had  anything  to  push, 
and  got  your  energy  well  roused.  I  should 
just  like  to  see  you  in  a  Western  railroad  of- 
fice, making  things  spin.  Now  a  poor  dog  like 
me,  thrown  out  neck  and  heels  into  the  water 
to  get  to  land  as  best  I  can  by  myself,  —  why, 
it 's  a  good  thing  to  meet  a  floating  plank  to 
rest  a  paw  on  now  and  then  ;  "  and  he  turned 
to  look  Brown  full  in  the  eyes  with  a  plaintive, 
doglike  appeal,  as  if  he  unconsciously  identi- 
fied himself  with  his  figure  of  speech. 

"  What    have   you   been   doing,   old   boy  ? 
Can't  I  lend  you  a  hand,  somehow  ?  "  asked 


224  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

the  sympathetic  host.  He  began  to  feel  that 
the  minus  Shekels  was  driving  at  something 
definite,  and  he  did  not  believe  that  he  should 
make  a  fool  of  himself ;  but  this  was  the  first 
time  that  one  of  his  boyhood  friends  had  turned 
up  looking  as  if  the  world  had  used  him  badly. 
There  ought  to  be  something  done  about  it. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Checkley,  with  an  air  of 
secrecy ;  and  he  held  out  a  sheaf  of  papers, 
which  were  produced  from  his  breast-pocket 
as  if  the  hand  well  knew  its  way  to  them.  "  I 
dare  say,"  the  owner  remarked  proudly,  "  that 
you  wouldn't  believe  that  there  is  an  enor- 
mous fortune  in  that  small  space  ?  " 

Brown  tried  to  look  interested,  but  his 
doubtfulness  showed  through. 

"  It  is  the  surest  thing  alive,"  continued 
Checkley.  "  Have  you  got  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars you  could  put  your  hand  on  ?  " 

The  listener  nodded  slowly ;  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  had  a  little  more  than  that  lying  idle 
in  the  bank,  because  he  really  did  not  know 
how  to  reinvest  it.  The  bulk  of  his  property 
was  in  the  hands  of  trustees  to  whom  his 
father  had  consigned  it,  but  this  was  some 
money  that  had  been  left  him  by  an  old  rela« 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  225 

tive,  long  ago,  in  his  own  right.  He  had  a 
vague  idea  of  putting  it  into  a  country-place, 
some  day  or  other.  He  had  a  sentiment 
about  keeping  it  by  itself,  and  he  wanted  a 
nice  old-fashioned  farm  by  and  by.  For  the 
present  he  and  his  wife  spent  their  summers 
with  Lucy's  mother,  who  would  else  have  been 
alone  in  her  great  house  at  Newport.  He 
could  say  neither  yes  nor  no  to  such  a  ques- 
tion, or  rather  such  a  questioner,  as  this  ;  yet 
a  curiosity  took  possession  of  him  to  hear 
more,  and  Checkley  saw  his  advantage. 

"Now,  my  boy,"  he  said,  pulling  his  big 
chair  close  to  Brown's  side  at  the  desk,  "  I 
helped  work  this  out,  and  I  twisted  things 
round  so  that  I  have  the  right  in  my  own 
hands.  I  simply  have  n't  a  cent,  and  I  don't 
know  where  I  can  get  it,  unless  you  give  it  to 
me,  to  carry  out  the  thing  one  step  more.  I 
need  capital,"  he  ended  persuasively,  and  gave 
another  doglike  look  at  Brown. 

The  situation  was  growing  commonplace. 
Brown  felt  for  the  first  time  a  little  bored, 
and  began  to  wonder  how  he  should  get  out 
of  it.  He  also  noticed  that  Old  Shekels  had 
singed  those  confounded  old  shoes  of  his.  It 


226  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

was  becoming  doubtful  if  the  arctic  overshoes 
and  the  luncheon  even  would  be  considered 
a  handsome  conclusion  to  their  renewed  ac- 
quaintance. 

"  Now  look  here,"  said  Shekels,  with  a 
cheerful  smile.  "  You  are  thinking  how  you 
can  ever  get  rid  of  me,  and  that  you  have 
heard  this  sort  of  story  before.  I  '11  tell  you 
the  rest  of  it  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  you 
can  say  that  your  business  claims  your  time, 
and  I  '11  disappear  like  the  juggler's  rabbit  in 
the  hat." 

"  In  the  shoes,"  Brown  mentally  corrected 
him,  and  tried  to  look  resigned,  and  even 
pleased ;  but  he  played  impatiently  with  his 
paper-knife.  He  felt  provokingly  young  and 
helpless  in  Checkley's  hands. 

Brown's  legal  ancestry  and  the  traditions  of 
his  education  had  not  prevented  the  love  of 
his  profession  from  being  largely  an  acquired 
taste.  He  was  equal  to  being  a  good  lawyer 
by  and  by,  but  his  head  was  naturally  fitted 
for  affairs ;  and  if  there  was  one  thing  that  he 
understood  more  easily  than  another,  it  was 
mechanical  intricacies.  Checkley  did  not  use 
his  whole  fifteen  minutes  in  making  sure  of 
this  ally. 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  227 

"  I  do  see  it.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  blind 
man  ?  "  exclaimed  the  listener,  springing  to  his 
feet,  and  marching  across  to  the  window,  where 
he  stood  with  his  back  to  Checkley,  just  as  he 
had  looked  out  at  the  storm  once  before  that 
day.  "It  is  a  great  temptation,  but  I  can't 
throw  up  my  law  prospects.  My  career  is  cut 
out  for  me  already.  But  I  '11  give  you  a  lift, 
Old  Shekels,  —  hang  me  if  I  don't !  " 

Checkley  grew  calm  as  his  friend  became 
excited.  "  Nonsense,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  want 
much  of  your  time ;  it 's  your  money  I  'm  after. 
You  can  keep  your  law  business  going,  —  all 
the  better  for  you.  We  are  likely  to  have 
suits,  but  nobody  can  touch  us.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  decide  now.  Think  it  over,  and  think 
me  over.  I  've  no  security  to  give  you  but  my 
plan  itself." 

"  Do  you  smoke  ?  "  inquired  Brown,  amica- 
bly, and  Checkley  answered  that  he  did. 

As  the  story  of  this  day  cannot  be  suffered 
to  grow  any  longer,  the  reader  must  be  content 
to  know  that  these  former  schoolmates  passed 
a  most  agreeable  morning,  that  they  had  a  cap- 
ital luncheon  together,  —  early,  lest  Checkley 
might  not  have  breakfasted  well,  —  and  that 


228  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

Checkley  accepted  the  overshoes  and  all  other 
favors  with  generous  lack  of  protest  or  false 
shame. 

II. 

A  year  from  the  time  when  he  met  his  old 
playfellow,  Brown  was  inclined  to  repent  his 
whole  indulgence  in  affectionate  civilities  to  a 
roving  schemer.  He  assured  himself  that  it 
had  been  an  expensive  lesson,  but  one  that  he 
probably  needed.  A  year  later  Brown  was 
triumphant,  and  began  to  flatter  himself  that 
he  knew  a  man  and  likewise  a  promising  en- 
terprise when  he  saw  them.  He  was  doing 
very  well  in  his  law  business.  The  family  rep- 
utation for  clearness  of  legal  vision  and  suc- 
cessful pleading  was  gaining  new  laurels,  and 
young  J.  Benedict  Brown  was  everywhere 
spoken  of  as  the  most  promising  man  of  his 
age  at  the  New  York  bar.  Detractors  hinted 
that  there  were  dozens  of  brighter  men,  but 
that  nobody  could  help  picking  up  some 
crumbs  of  business  with  such  a  father  and 
grandfathers  behind  him.  Mrs.  Brown  led 
the  company  of  her  husband's  admirers,  and 
already  indulged  in  dreams  of  his  appearance 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  229 

in  the  gloomy  but  noble  garb  of  a  chief  jus- 
tice. He  was  very  busy  in  these  days ;  long 
ago  he  had  been  obliged  to  take  his  breakfast 
at  eight  o'clock  instead  of  half -past  nine,  and 
he  was  rarely  at  home  until  after  six  o'clock  at 
night,  while  it  was  not  uncommon  that  their 
seven  o'clock  dinner  was  considerably  delayed. 
Lucy  watched  him  with  increasing  anxiety,  for 
fear  that  he  would  break  himself  down  with 
overwork,  but  he  never  had  seemed  in  such 
good  health  and  spirits.  The  year  before  he 
had  been  so  gloomy  and  despondent  for  a  few 
weeks  that  she  was  always  fearing  a  return, 
but  at  present  there  was  no  sign  of  any.  To 
outward  view  the  Benedict  Browns  were  the 
most  prosperous  young  people  in  the  city. 
Fortune,  position,  everything  that  the  social 
heart  desired,  seemed  to  be  heaped  upon  them. 
A  few  croaking  voices  had  begun  to  figure 
Brown's  probable  expenses,  and  to  insinuate 
that  he  must  be  living  a  good  way  beyond  his 
income.  Brown  did  not  look  like  a  debtor, 
however;  he  had  an  older  and  more  deter- 
mined appearance,  as  if  he  had  weighty  affairs 
on  his  mind  and  a  high  principle  of  conduct  in 
regard  to  them. 


230  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

One  morning  early  in  March  the  hero  of 
this  tale  hurried  away  from  his  breakfast  ta- 
ble, with  a  quick  kiss  on  the  top  of  his  three- 
year-old  daughter's  curly  warm  little  head. 
They  had  been  breakfasting  alone  together  in 
a  delightfully  social  way,  and  before  Brown 
put  on  his  overcoat  he  ran  up-stairs,  two  steps 
at  a  time,  to  give  another  kiss  to  his  wife  and 
a  young  son  some  three  weeks  of  age.  Mrs. 
Brown  already  spoke  of  the  unconscious  mor- 
sel of  humanity  with  proud  respect  as  Bene- 
dict, but  Brown  himself  was  provokingly  fond 
of  calling  him  Johnny.  He  appeared  to  have 
a  secret  satisfaction  and  deep  sense  of  pride 
and  amusement  in  denying  his  son  the  family 
name.  Who  knew  whether  this  might  not  be 
the  most  illustrious  of  all  the  five  Benedict 
Browns  ?  At  present  he  was  a  very  impor- 
tant and  welcome  person  indeed  in  his  own 
family. 

"  I  am  in  an  uncommon  hurry  this  morn- 
ing," said  the  father,  turning  back  for  one 
word  more  as  he  went  out.  "  I  have  a  busi- 
ness meeting  to  go  to  at  nine." 

Lucy  was  one  of  those  delightful  women 
who  rarely  demand  particular  explanations 


TEE  TWO  BROWNS.  231 

and  are  contented  with  general  assurances, 
and  she  kindly  advised  Brown  not  to  get  too 
tired,  and  to  be  sure  to  come  home  by  half- 
past  five  if  he  could  ;  she  missed  him.  so  much 
more  now  that  she  was  not  busy  herself  and 
had  to  spend  the  whole  day  up-stairs.  She 
had  a  vague  desire  to  know  about  her  hus- 
band's business,  —  it  seemed  to  interest  him 
so  much ;  but  she  did  not  like  to  expose  her 
total  ignorance  of  affairs,  and  had  a  theory, 
besides,  that  it  was  better  for  Ben  to  shake  off 
his  cares  when  he  was  at  home. 

As  Ben  went  down-stairs  again,  he  was  at- 
tacked by  a  sense  of  guilt  more  uncomfortable 
than  usual,  and  said  to  himself  that  he  must 
really  tell  Lucy  all  about  the  Planter  Com- 
pany. There  was  no  fear  of  any  catastrophe, 
it  was  far  beyond  the  realm  of  experiments, 
and  she  was  sure  to  hear  of  it  from  somebody 
else,  and  to  feel  hurt  at  his  silence.  The  won- 
der was  that  he  had  hidden  his  head  in  the 
sand  of  his  first  name  so  long. 

The  office  of  J.  Benedict  Brown,  counselor 
at  law,  was  un visited,  except  by  its  faithful 
clerk  and  copyist,  until  some  three  hours  later 


232  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

in  the  day.  "When  the  young  lawyer  reached 
a  certain  point  on  Broadway,  he  turned 
quickly  to  the  right  and  went  down  a  side 
street,  as  if  he  were  well  accustomed  to  such  a 
course,  and  knew  the  shortest  cut  toward  a 
dingy  brick  building  which  bore  a  clamorous 
sort  of  sign,  "  The  Farmer's  Right  -  Hand 
Man :  The  Electric  Automatic  Potato  Planter. 
Brown  &  Checkley,  Manufacturers."  The 
doorway  was  blockaded  with  large  packing- 
cases,  and,  early  as  it  still  was  for  the  busi- 
ness world,  there  were  several  men  in  the 
counting-room,  toward  which  Brown  went  at 
once.  The  workmen  near  by  gave  our  friend 
a  cheerful  morning  greeting,  and  Mr.  Check- 
ley,  who  sat  behind  his  desk,  rose  soberly,  and 
presented  the  new-comer  to  the  counting-room 
audience  as  "  Our  head  of  the  firm,  gentlemen, 
Mr.  John  B.  Brown  ;  and  now  we  will  proceed 
to  business  at  once."  Brown  established  him- 
self at  another  desk,  well  stocked  with  papers, 
and  began  to  hunt  for  something  in  a  lower 
drawer,  the  key  of  which  he  had  taken  from 
his  own  pocket.  This  was  evidently  not  an 
occasional  thing,  this  business  interview ;  he 
took  on,  even  to  the  most  indifferent  observer's 
eye,  an  air  of  relationship  to  the  place. 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  233 

"  The  only  thing  that  seems  to  be  imperative 
this  morning,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Checkley,  plac- 
idly, in  a  voice  directed  to  the  other  listeners, 
"  is  a  decision  on  our  part  in  regard  to  the  in- 
crease of  our  circular,  almanac,  and  agent  de- 
partments. We  came  to  no  conclusion  yester- 
day. You  have  the  figures  before  you  on  that 
sheet  of  blue  paper.  I  think  the  least  increase 
that  we  can  manage  is  to  quadruple  the  num- 
ber of  circulars  and  almanacs  over  that  of  last 
year." 

Checkley  was  in  the  habit  of  trying  to  give 
casual  strangers  as  large  an  idea  as  possible 
of  the  magnitude  of  the  Planter  Company's 
business,  so  Brown  listened  respectfully,  and 
waited  for  further  information. 

"  These  gentlemen,"  continued  Mr.  Check- 
ley,  "are  ready  with  an  offer  to  make  an  ex- 
tensive additional  contract  for  the  wood- work 
of  the  machines,  and  we  will  listen  to  them. 
In  our  liability  to  meet  extraordinary  orders 
at  short  notice,  we  are  of  course  obliged  to 
defend  ourselves  against  any  possible  inability 
of  theirs  to  furnish  supplies.  We  find  that 
the  business  grows  with  such  rapidity  that  it 
is  most  difficult  to  make  provision  against  sur- 


234  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

prise.  You  can  easily  understand  "  (address- 
ing the  small  audience)  "  that  an  article  like 
ours  is  invaluable  to  every  man  who  cultivates 
over  three  acres  of  land.  Indispensable,  I 
may  say,  since  it  saves  the  hiring  of  labor, 
saves  time,  and  saves  strength.  Such  an  ar- 
ticle is  one  no  farmer  will  be  without  when  he 
once  sees  it  work." 

Checkley  was  unusually  fluent  of  speech  this 
morning,  and  the  interview  went  on  prosper- 
ously. Somehow,  the  familiar  place  and  fa- 
miliar arguments  struck  Brown  with  a  fresh 
vividness  and  air  of  reality.  His  thoughts 
wandered  away  to  his  law  business  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  he  found  himself  again  lis- 
tening to  another  account  of  the  electric  auto- 
matic potato  planter  which  Checkley  was  giv- 
ing to  a  new-comer,  a  Western  man,  who  was 
evidently  a  large  dealer  in  agricultural  sup- 
plies. There  was  a  row  of  clerks  behind  a 
screen,  and  their  pens  were  scratching  dili- 
gently. Brown  could  see  the  high  stacks  of 
almanacs  through  the  dusty  glass  walls  that 
fenced  the  counting-room,  —  bright  red  al- 
manacs, which  combined  a  good  selection  of 
family  reading  with  meteorological  statistics 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  235 

and  the  praises  of  the  potato  planter  judi- 
ciously arranged  on  every  page.  It  looked  as 
if  there  were  almanacs  enough  already  for 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  America,  but 
Checkley  knew  what  he  was  about.  Brown 
had  thought  that  almanacs  were  a  step  too 
low ;  he  was  conscious  of  a  shameful  wish  now 
and  then  that  he  had  embarked  on  any  sort 
of  business  rather  than  a  patent  potato  planter. 
The  pride  of  the  J.  Benedict  Browns,  judges 
and  famous  pleaders  at  the  bar,  had  revolted 
more  than  once  in  the  beginning  against  such  a 
sordid  enterprise.  But  as  for  John  B.  Brown, 
this  enterprising  manufacturer  and  distributer 
of  an  article  that  no  farmer  could  do  with- 
out, he  felt  an  increasing  pride  in  his  success. 
He  had  merely  made  use  of  a  little  capital 
that  was  lying  idle,  and  his  own  superfluous 
and  unemployed  energy.  He  believed  that 
his  legal  affairs  had  been  helped  rather  than 
hindered  by  this  side  issue  of  his,  and  he  and 
Checkley  had  fought  some  amazing  fights  with 
the  world  in  the  course  of  their  short  but  suc- 
cessful alliance.  Brown  lazily  opened  a  di- 
rectory near  at  hand,  and  looked  among  the 
B's.  It  was  a  new  copy,  and  he  nearly  laughed 


236  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

aloud  at  the  discovery  that  he  figured  twice 
on  the  page :  Brown,  J.  Benedict  lawyer, 
Broadway ;  h.  38th  St.,  and  Brown,  John  B., 
B.  &  Checkley  machinists,  9th  Ave  ;  h.  Jersey 
City.  Here  was  a  general  masquerade !  Check- 
ley  lived  in  Jersey  City,  and  one  of  the  clerks 
must  have  given  wrong  information,  or  else 
the  directory  agent  had  confused  what  was 
told  him.  Nobody  knew  where  he  lived,  very 
likely.  They  called  him  The  Boss,  in  the  es- 
tablishment, because  he  dressed  well  and  had 
a  less  brotherly  and  companionable  manner 
than  Checkley.  It  was  surprising,  the  way  a 
man  could  hide  himself  in  such  a  huge  city  as 
this.  Yes,  he  must  certainly  tell  Lucy  that 
very  night.  They  would  have  a  capital  laugh 
over  it,  and  he  could  tease  her  about  making 
Johnny  a  partner  instead  of  the  fifth  at  the 
bar.  Lucy  was  very  fond  of  a  joke,  and  she 
had  no  idea  how  rich  they  were  going  to  be  if 
affairs  went  on  at  this  pace.  Brown  had  felt 
very  dishonest  for  a  long  time  whenever  he 
saw  their  advertisements  in  the  papers,  and 
had  been  nearly  ready  to  confess  and  be  for- 
given once  the  summer  before,  when  he  and 
Lucy  took  a  little  journey  together  up  the  Con- 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  237 

necticut  River,  and  Lucy  had  writhed  in  con- 
temptuous agony  over  Checkley's  desecration 
of  natural  scenery.  "  Use  Brown  &  Check- 
ley's  Electric  Automatic  Potato  Planter,  and 
Save  Ten  Years  of  Life,"  was  displayed  on 
rocks  and  fences  everywhere.  Checkley  him- 
self had  used  his  short  summer  holiday  in 
leading  a  gang  of  letterers  into  the  rural  dis- 
tricts, and  this  was  the  result.  Could  a  man 
of  ordinary  courage  confess  at  such  a  moment 
that  the  name  of  Brown  was  in  reality  her 
own  property,  and  that  she  was  unconsciously 
responsible  for  such  vandalism  ? 

Checkley  was  rushing  things  this  morning  ; 
he  eagerly  assured  his  guest  that  they  had 
made  the  planter  pay  her  own  bills  after  the 
first  six  months,  and  had  advertised  only  as 
fast  as  they  gained  the  means.  It  was  the 
first  application  of  electricity  to  farming. 
"  Brown  and  I  had  little  capital  to  start  with, 
but  we  knew  we  had  hold  of  a  sure  thing.  I 
am  not  sure  that  there  is  anything  that  cor- 
responds to  it  in  the  world  of  inventions," 
Checkley  continued  proudly.  "  I  have  been 
an  inventor  all  my  life.  Here  you  have  a 
light-wheeled  vehicle  that  one  horse  can  drag 


238  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

all  day  and  an  intelligent  child  can  control 
You  only  need  to  plow  and  harrow  and  ma- 
nure your  ground  :  then  the  planter  is  driven 
to  and  fro  ;  it  stops  itself  at  proper  distances, 
a  revolving  harrow  loosens  the  ground  within 
a  space  twelve  inches  in  diameter,  this  har- 
row is  drawn  up,  the  shovel  throws  the  earth 
out  at  one  side,  the  hopper  lets  fall  sufficient 
seed,  a  second  shovel  arrangement  covers  it  in, 
and  a  weight  falls  twice  and  banks  it  down, 
the  horse  steps  on  between  the  furrows.  My 
dear  sir,  in  the  time  I  have  consumed  in  tell- 
ing you,  four  hills  of  potatoes  are  planted  as 
well  as  if  you  had  done  each  one  separately 
with  your  own  hoe ;  the  average  time  is  only 
three  fifths  of  a  minute.  A  horse  soon  learns 
the  trick,  for  the  brake  is  self-acting  and  stops 
him  in  the  proper  place.  The  only  thing  that 
troubled  us  in  the  beginning  was  the  complaint 
of  patrons  that  the  horses  gave  trouble,  and 
the  hills  went  zigzagging  all  over  the  field. 
This  new  improvement  makes  a  field  as  reg- 
ular as  a  checker-board.  With  the  brake  that 
stops  the  planter  instantly,  the  horse  learns  to 
anticipate,  and  makes  his  four  steps  forward 
and  stops  of  his  own  accord.  It  is  less  fatigu- 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  239 

ing  for  the  horse  than  a  plow  or  harrow,  and  a 
treadmill  is  barbarous  beside  it.  Then  think 
of  the  heat  of  planting  time  and  the  waste  of 
human  energy !  We  are  now  perfecting  a  re- 
hoer  and  digger,  but  our  present  enterprise  is 
more  than  we  can  handle  with  ease.  You  have, 
no  doubt,  read  our  testimonials.  Hear  this  :  a 
ten-acre  field  planted  in  half  a  day,  with  some 
help  from  a  neighbor,  —  read  for  yourself,  sir  ! 
"  You  need  to  be  very  careful  of  the  gauges 
and  setting  your  brakes  properly,"  Checkley 
confided  honestly.  "  Electricity  is  a  terrible 
force ;  there  has  been  one  bad  accident  through 
such  carelessness.  The  shovel  arrangement 
was  not  set  as  it  should  be,  and  the  machine 
went  on  digging  straight  down,  and  would 
have  carried  the  horse  with  it,  if  the  harness 
had  n't  been  so  old  that  he  freed  himself,  and 
scrambled  out  of  the  pit.  My  dear  sir,  this 
will  show  you  the  power  of  that  machine ;  it 
went  down  forty  feet,  right  through  gravel, 
rotten  rock,  and  everything,  until  it  struck  a 
solid  ledge,  and  that  stopped  it  at  last.  The 
whole  neighborhood  collected,  and  they  got 
alarmed,  —  thought  she  might  be  boring  for 
a  volcano  or  something ;  and  they  rolled  a  big 


240  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

bowlder  out  of  a  pasture  near  by,  and  let  it 
drop  right  down  on  the  planter  ;  but  that  only 
damaged  the  wood-work  and  partly  disabled 
the  running-work,  for  she  kept  tossing  up 
splinters  for  a  day  or  two.  The  man  had  n't 
a  word  to  say,  for  it  was  a  springy  field,  and 
the  planter  had  struck  water  somewhere  and 
made  him  a  first-rate  well.  He  had  been  in- 
tending to  dig  one  thereabouts  for  a  good 
while." 

"  I  want  to  know !  "  exclaimed  the  wide- 
eyed  listener.  Brown  heard  this  flow  of  Check- 
ley's  eloquence,  and  was  amused  at  the  re- 
sponse. It  seemed  that  the  listener,  a  worthy, 
well-to-do  Connecticut  farmer,  had  an  idea  of 
introducing  the  automatic  potato  planter  to 
his  neighborhood,  and  was  trying  to  obtain  one 
on  trial  at  reduced  price,  with  a  promise  of 
wide  influence  in  its  behalf  and  cordial  recom- 
mendation. Checkley  believed  in  favoring  the 
farmers,  and  the  affair  was  presently  con- 
cluded. Brown  was  amazed  to  hear  his  com- 
panion say  that  he,  Brown,  had  been  thinking 
that  he  should  like  to  pay  a  visit  to  that  neigh- 
borhood at  county-fair  time,  and  speak  to  the 
folks  on  agricultural  topics.  Checkley  liked 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  241 

his  jokes,  and  Brown  smiled,  but  he  turned  a 
little  cold,  and  wondered  if  they  were  not 
going  a  trifle  too  fast.  There  might  not  be 
enough  of  him  for  two  Browns,  at  this  rate ! 
But  it  was  something  to  find  himself  a  busy, 
prosperous  man  instead  of  an  idle,  overgrown 
boy,  and  among  the  new  firms  of  its  class 
none  stood  better  than  Brown  &  Checkley. 

There  was  little  time  left  for  serious  busi- 
ness conference,  but  Checkley  had  great  ex- 
ecutive ability,  and  so  had  Mr.  John  B.  Brown 
of  Jersey  City,  for  that  matter.  Checkley 
was  thin  yet  and  not  very  well  dressed,  but  he 
had  a  buoyant,  confident  air.  "  How  well  he 
knows  human  nature,  and  what  a  good  fel- 
low he  is  I  "  thought  Brown  as  they  parted. 
"  Snooks  is  more  of  a  man  than  the  dandy  I 
met  in  that  newspaper  office,"  reflected  Check- 
ley.  "  I  never  have  lost  a  cent  for  him,  either, 
but  hang  me  if  we  have  n't  had  some  narrow 
escapes.  I  got  him  in  pretty  deep  once,  when 
he  had  the  worst  doubts  of  me  he  ever  had. 
Snooks  looked  solemn,  but  he  never  flung  at 
me,  or  did  anything  but  shoulder  half  the 
blame  and  the  worry,  like  a  man." 

In  the  neighborhood  of  the  company's  office 


242  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

Brown  met  several  business  acquaintances,  who 
gave  him  a  friendly  good-morning.  He  had 
gathered  a  whole  new  circle  of  associates,  in 
his  character  of  senior  partner  of  Brown  & 
Checkley.  He  had  indulged  in  bad  lunches 
with  these  friends,  and  already  figured  largely 
in  the  agricultural-implement  world ;  he  would 
have  been  deeply  gratified  if  he  had  heard 
somebody  say,  as  he  went  by,  "  That 's  Brown, 
of  the  Planter  Company.  Those  fellows  are 
sweeping  everything  before  them  this  spring. 
They  've  got  hold  of  as  big  a  thing  as  the  Mc- 
Cormick  reaper." 

It  was  ten  or  fifteen  minutes'  walk  between 
the  two  offices,  and  when  J.  Benedict  Brown, 
Esq.,  seated  himself  at  his  desk  he  was  still 
thinking  about  his  other  business,  which  he 
usually  insisted  upon  putting  out  of  his  mind. 
He  never  had  looked  at  it  so  entirely  from  the 
outside.  He  was  at  heart  a  most  conservative 
person.  He  was  more  fettered  than  he  knew 
by  his  family  pride  and  traditions,  and  he  had 
become  persuaded  of  his  ability  to  follow  the 
law  in  a  way  that  he  never  used  to  expect. 
He  felt  it  in  him  to  make  his  influence  rec- 
ognized at  the  bar,  and  to  handle  heavy  pieces 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  243 

of  business.  Now  that  Checkley  was  so  well 
established  he  could  slip  out,  and  hold  only  a 
silent  partnership,  if  he  pleased.  Yet  an  op- 
posing judgment  in  his  own  mind  at  the  mo- 
ment prevented  him  from  cordially  accepting 
such  an  idea.  There  were  some  things,  and 
he  knew  it,  that  Checkley  could  not  have 
planned  nor  have  carried  without  him,  and  the 
concern  might  easily  fall  to  pieces  even  now. 
There  was  his  own  boy,  however,  who  must 
inherit  as  fair  a  name  from  him  as  he  had 
from  his  father.  There  had  never  yet  been  a 
dishonored  man  of  his  name.  Checkley  had 
counted  upon  the  value  of  the  family  repu- 
tation at  first ;  he  insisted  that  they  were 
throwing  away  a  great  advantage  by  not  add- 
ing the  prefix  of  J.  Benedict  to  the  plain 
Brown  &  Checkley.  J.  Benedict  Brown  was  a 
name  of  historical  renown.  Checkley  did  not 
begin  to  understand  yet  that  John  B.  Brown 
was  as  utterly  unknown  to  the  friends  of  the 
J.  Benedict  Browns  as  if  he  and  his  potato 
planter  had  never  existed.  He  simply  knew 
that  Snooks  was  old-maidishly  eager  to  keep 
his  two  occupations  apart,  and  that  only  from 
half-past  eight  to  ten  and  from  three  o'clock 


244  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

until  dinner-time  he  was  the  steady  shaft-horse 
of  Brown  &  Checkley. 

Brown  sat  in  the  Broadway  office,  busy  at 
his  work,  having  finished  his  reflections  with- 
out coming  to  any  new  decisions.  He  was 
working  up  a  law  case  that  he  took  great 
pride  in.  All  his  inherited  cleverness  and  a 
new  love  for  such  a  puzzle  delighted  him  ;  he 
never  had  felt  a  keener  sense  of  his  own  power, 
and  the  planter  was  utterly  forgotten. 

Some  one  entered  the  office,  and  gave  a 
chair  one  aggressive  pull  across  the  polished 
wood  floor.  It  sounded  as  if  the  caster  had  left 
a  damaging  scratch,  and  Brown  looked  round 
with  not  a  little  annoyance.  He  felt  a  strange 
suspicion  that  one  of  his  Planter  Company  as- 
sociates had  at  last  hunted  him  down.  There 
was  an  inner  room  for  purposes  of  private  con- 
sultation, and  Brown  signified,  after  a  proper 
interval,  that  the  stranger  might  go  there.  It 
was  a  darkish  place,  where  he  had  once  tried 
to  have  his  own  desk ;  but  it  was  much  too 
gloomy,  especially  in  the  days  when  there  was 
nothing  to  do.  Except  when  he  was  at  court, 
or  at  his  other  business,  he  was  very  faithful  to 
his  post,  and  the  stranger  need  not  have  been  so 
unreasonably  glad  to  find  him  at  his  office. 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  245 

"  I  see  that  you  're  your  father's  own  son," 
the  client  began,  in  an  asthmatic  voice.  He 
looked  like  a  cross  old  fellow,  and  Brown  had 
an  instant  sense  of  relief  because  the  first 
words  had  not  been  suggestive  of  the  other 
place  of  business.  "  I  knew  your  father  and 
grandfather  before  you,"  said  Mr.  Grandison, 
"  and  I  've  been  out  of  lawyers'  hands  these 
twenty  years,  more  or  less ;  but  I  've  got  some 
fight  left,  and  when  I  got  my  blood  up  yester- 
day about  some  infringements,  I  thought  over 
to  whom  I  could  give  the  case,  and  I  decided 
that  I  would  come  round  and  look  you  over, 
to  see  if  I  could  trust  you  with  such  a  piece 
of  work.  I  don't  know  whether  you  're  not 
too  young  now,  but  it  '11  be  a  feather  for  you 
if  you  can  handle  it.  I  'm  ready  to  pay  what 
the  work 's  worth,  —  I  '11  tell  you  that  to  begin 
with." 

The  word  "  infringements "  had  an  un- 
pleasant sound,  but  Brown  waited  patiently. 
He  had  some  knowledge  of  thi;  man,  for  whom 
his  father  had  gained  a  famous  case.  Grandi- 
son was  an  inventor.  On  the  whole,  he  could 
recall  the  case  perfectly ;  he  had  tried  to  make 
himself  familiar  with  it,  for  future  use ;  but 


246  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

there  was  no  possibility  of  those  questions  be- 
ing reopened. 

"  My  factories  go  on  like  clock  -  work, 
and  have  these  thirty  years/'  said  the  old 
man.  Brown  began  to  feel  a  personal  dislike. 
44 1  thought  I  had  disposed  of  all  opponents 
and  rivals  long  ago.  Jenks  and  Rowley  are 
our  regular  lawyers,  but  now  they  're  getting 
old,  and  they  don't  own  me,  any  way.  You 
see  there  are  a  couple  of  jackasses,  over  on 
Ninth  Avenue,  who  have  started  up  an  electric 
potato  planter,  —  a  capital  good  thing  it  is, 
too,  —  that  runs  so  close  to  that  cog-wheel  ar- 
rangement in  the  steam  harrow  we  make  that 
I  'm  going  to  stop  them  short,  if  I  can  ;  or,  if 
I  can't  do  that,  I  '11  buy  'em  out,  if  it  costs  a 
million  to  do  it.  You  can't  afford  to  let  such 
a  business  as  mine  scatter  itself,  and  I  mean 
to  hold  it  together  as  long  as  I  am  here  to 
do  it." 

Brown  felt  a  dampness  gather  on  his  fore- 
head ;  then  his  manhood  arose  triumphant,  and 
his  courage  declared  itself  equal  to  this  emer- 
gency. He  was  not  caught  stealing,  neither 
had  he  done  anything  dishonorable.  There 
was  no  real  incongruity  in  a  Benedict  Brown's 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  247 

being  interested  in  a  potato  planter ;  it  had 
all  been  a  fair,  above-board  business.  He  was 
ready  to  stand  up  for  it. 

"  I  've  been  living  in  Thirty-Eighth  Street," 
said  the  client,  "  and  I  have  often  watched  you 
come  and  go.  I  like  to  see  a  lad  diligent  and 
right  after  his  business,  as  you  are,  and  ready 
to  go  down  town  an  hour  or  two  earlier  in  the 
morning  than  the  fashion  is.  I  've  had  my  eye 
on  you  for  a  year  or  two.  I  started  in  life  a 
poor  boy,  and  never  had  the  backing  up  that 
was  ready  for  you  ;  but  I  keep  the  run  of  my 
affairs,  I  can  tell  you.  I  don't  get  down  town 
every  day,  by  any  means,  but  a  thing  like  this 
that  I  want  to  consult  you  about  fires  me  all 
up." 

"  Will  you  give  me  an  idea  of  the  case,  Mr. 
Grandison  ?  "  asked  Brown,  politely.  He  was 
afraid  he  might  be  taking  an  unfair  advantage, 
but  the  words  were  out,  and  the  old  manufac- 
turer, with  much  detail,  laid  the  grievance  be- 
fore him. 

"  They  're  smart  young  men,"  he  ended.  "  I 
don't  know  their  match.  I  hear  they  had  a 
small  capital,  and  laid  it  out  mostly  in  adver- 
tising. One  of  them  got  hold  of  a  half -worked- 


248  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

out  notion  and  completed  it,  and  bought  out 
the  owner's  right ;  and  there  was  a  small  man- 
ufactory over  in  Jersey  that  had  been  swamped, 
and  they  got  that  for  a  song,  too  ;  and  the  min- 
ute the  machine  was  on  the  market  it  went 
like  wildfire.  In  spite  of  constant  extensions, 
they  have  been  able  to  meet  their  obligations 
right  along.  I  don't  want  to  harm  'em  if 
they  '11  treat  me  fairly.  I  '11  give  'em  a  hand- 
some sum  down  to  sell  out  quietly,  or  I  '11  fight 
'em  all  to  pieces." 

"  Perhaps  they  can  stand  a  fight,  and  can 
prove  that  their  machine  is  no  infringement 
on  anybody's,"  suggested  the  lawyer,  with  a 
good  deal  of  spirit. 

Mr.  Grandison  gave  him  a  shrewd  glance. 
"  This  Brown  is  no  relation  to  you,  I  hope  ?  " 
he  said,  doubtfully ;  but  Brown  flushed 
quickly,  and  made  a  little  joke  about  the 
name's  not  being  at  all  uncommon.  The  cli- 
ent thought  he  was  not  pleased  at  being  as- 
sociated with  a  firm  of  machinists,  and  was 
sorry  he  had  spoken.  The  boy  felt  older  than 
he  looked,  no  doubt. 

When  the  interview  was  ended,  Brown,  who 
had  been  very  inexpressive  of  his  opinions  all 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  249 

the  way  through,  assured  his  visitor  that  there 
were  some  reasons  why  he  would  not  give  any 
answer  then  about  undertaking  the  case,  and 
would  ask  his  leave  to  defer  a  direct  reply 
until  the  next  day.  "  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
stop  as  I  go  up  town  in  the  afternoon,"  said 
our  friend.  The  elder  man  thanked  him,  and 
said  he  should  count  it  a  great  favor,  if  the 
weather  were  no  better  than  at  present,  and 
went  limping  away.  Poor  old  soul !  it  was 
late  for  him  to  be  taking  pleasure  in  quarrels 
with  his  fellow-men. 

Checkley  was  going  over  to  the  works  that 
afternoon,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  seeing 
him  until  the  next  morning,  so  Brown  gave 
all  his  mind  that  he  possibly  could  to  being  J. 
Benedict,  the  rising  lawyer.  He  had  some  per- 
plexing business  upon  which  he  tried  hard  to 
fix  his  attention,  but  the  affairs  of  John  B. 
Brown  and  the  potato  planter  kept  rising  be- 
fore him  in  an  uneasy,  ghostlike  way  that  was 
most  disagreeable.  He  had  put  more  of  his 
thoughts  into  those  side  interests  than  he  had 
been  aware.  The  two  years  had  gone  by  like 
a  dream,  but  they  had  left  a  good  many  per- 
manent  evidences  of  their  presence.  There 


250  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

was  one  of  the  teamsters,  who  had  broken  hig 
leg  early  in  the  winter,  and  whom  Brown  had 
visited  in  the  hospital,  besides  looking  after 
the  patient's  family.  He  had  built  up  his  own 
business  reputation,  and  had  grown  ambitious 
about  the  success  of  the  firm.  He  had  deter- 
mined at  first  to  say  nothing,  even  to  his  wife, 
until  he  knew  whether  he  had  made  a  fool  of 
himself  or  not,  but  he  was  perfectly  aware  now 
that  he  had  not  made  a  fool  of  himself.  He 
was  evolving  plans  for  giving  all  their  work- 
men some  share  in  the  business,  and  was  in- 
creasingly glad  that  he  had  a  chance  to  work 
out  some  experiments  in  the  puzzling  social 
questions  of  the  day.  He  was  ready  now  to 
be  something  of  a  statesman.  He  was  willing 
to  believe  that  he  had  got  hold  of  the  right 
thread  of  the  snarled  skein  that  linked  labor 
with  capital.  His  wife  knew  that  he  had  some 
business  interests  apart  from  his  law  reports 
and  his  practice,  and  none  of  his  friends  would 
be  surprised  that  he  had  been  speculating  a 
little.  Gales  would  have  got  at  the  whole 
story,  and  told  it,  too  ;  but  he  had  gone 
abroad  months  before,  and  relinquished  his 
profession  altogether,  for  the  time  being.  Per. 


THE  TWO  BROWNS.  251 

haps  the  time  had  come  to  choose  between 
the  two  Browns  ;  it  would  be  hard  to  play 
both  characters,  if  the  cares  of  either  should 
double,  for  instance,  and  he  was,  perhaps, 
fated  to  be  J.  Benedict,  after  all.  This  was 
a  melancholy  thought,  and  the  old  wish  re- 
turned that  his  other  enterprise  had  concerned 
anything  but  an  automatic  potato  planter.  It 
might  give  him  a  nickname,  and  he  never 
would  be  able  to  live  the  silly  story  down. 
Checkley  was  sure  to  project  something  new, 
and  yet  he  was  truly  proud  of  the  firm  of 
Brown  &  Checkley,  and  would  not  see  it 
cheated. 

Next  day,  Checkley  happened  to  be  alone  in 
the  office,  and  his  partner  beckoned  him  out 
into  an  empty  corner  of  their  place  of  busi- 
ness, where  they  were  well  removed  from  the 
clerks  and  their  scratching  pens.  Checkley 
laughed  and  shouted,  and  was  at  first  unable 
to  give  any  answer.  "  Wants  you  to  bring  a 
suit  of  infringement  against  yourself,  does 
he  ?  "  he  gasped  at  length.  "  Go  ahead,  my 
boy ;  nobody  '11  know  the  difference.  It  will 
advertise  us  enormously.  I  have  told  you  a 
dozen  times  that  nothing  would  do  us  so  much 


252  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

good  as  a  rousing  lawsuit.  Now  don't  put  on 
your  best  J.  Benedict  manners,  but  listen  to 
me.  I*  m  not  going  to  work  myself  to  death. 
We  have  laid  by  something  handsome  already ; 
if  the  old  fellow  will  add  to  it,  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  sell  out,  if  you  are,  just  to  make  his 
last  days  happy.  I  've  got  my  head  full  of  new 
electric  notions,  and  I  want  to  go  to  France 
and  experiment.  You  tell  him  the  whole 
story ;  he  will  be  glad  to  get  hold  of  the 
planter,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  let  it  go.  I 
meant  to  go  roving  this  summer.  I  '11  let  it 
all  drop.  We  have  had  a  run  of  luck,  and 
luck  is  apt  to  turn.  We  're  young  yet,  you 
know,  J.  Benedict  Brown,  so  I  put  this  busi- 
ness into  your  hands.  You  're  lawyer  for  the 
firm." 

Brown  turned  away  mournfully ;  he  was 
convinced  more  entirely  than  ever  before  of 
the  erratic  nature  of  his  partner:  yesterday 
with  his  whole  soul  bent  on  furthering  the 
success  of  the  planter ;  to-day  ready  to  throw 
it  aside,  and  to  wander  away  and  spend  all 
the  money  he  had  earned.  Brown  mentally 
resolved  that  it  really  was  not  safe  to  risk  his 
good  name  any  longer  in  such  keeping,  but 


THE   TWO  BROWNS.  253 

that  he  should  insist  upon  being  made  trustee 
of  a  share  of  his  partner's  funds,  so  that  Check- 
ley  might  never  come  to  the  ground  again. 

Checkley  called  him  back  in  great  excite- 
ment, when  he  was  leaving  the  office,  a  little 
later.  "  Look  here,"  said  he.  "  I  was  going 
to  put  this  picture  into  our  next  almanac  as 
your  portrait.  I  was  in  the  patent-medicine 
business  once,  and  this  was  old  Dr.  Parkins, 
who  made  the  Spring  Bitters.  I  was  going  to 
start  him  again  as  John  B.  Brown,  the  Penn- 
sylvania farmer  and  inventor." 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  beneath  our 
dignity,"  responded  Brown,  severely.  "  What 
became  of  your  patent-medicine  business?  I 
never  heard  of  that." 

"  Because  it  feU  through,"  said  Old  Shekels, 
cheerfully.  "  This  was  the  only  thing  that 
never  did.  You  're  spoiling  a  first-class  busi- 
ness man  for  a  doubtful  lawyer."  But  Brown 
laughed,  and  straightened  himself  proudly  as 
he  went  toward  Broadway  and  his  other  office, 
which  bore  the  shining  brass  door-plate  with 
his  honored  name  of  J.  Benedict  Brown. 

That  evening  he  confessed  all  to  his  wife. 
It  was  a  great  shock,  but  she  bore  it  bravely. 


254  THE  TWO  BROWNS. 

She  knew  little  about  business,  but  she  believed 
with  all  her  heart  in  respecting  the  traditions 
of  one's  family.  Though,  after  all,  one  Brown 
had  kindly  made  money  for  the  other. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


HEC'Dlp-URD 
*2lW 
MAY  2  p  1991 


KJC'DLD-URL 


NOV  291993 
4WKQCT    6  1999 


RET    ocioi'W 


315 


J>F 


